A  ? 


only  -mat  you  treat  4 
tkem  well  ani  see 
ttiem  safely  home 


- 


THE 

MAN  OF  IRON 


BY 

RICHARD  DEHAN 

AUTHOR  OF 

BETWEEN  TWO  THIEVES,  ONE  BRAVER  THING, 
(THE  DOP  DOCTOR),  ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

GROS5ET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Conrigkt,  1916,  By 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


•AU  rigJUt  weired,  including  that  of  tranttation 
iniojortign  langvagu 


February,  1916 


PREFACE 

For  the  second  time,  since  this  book's  'beginning,  the  rose 
of  July  had  flamed  into  splendid  bloom.  I  drew  breath, 
for  my  task  approached  its  ending,  and  looked  up  from 
the  yellowed  newspaper  records  of  a  great  War  waged 
forty-four  years  ago. 

Perhaps  I  had  grown  negligent  of  modern  signs  and 
portents,  or  the  web  of  Diplomacy  had  veiled  them  from  all 
but  privileged  eyes.  .  .  .  Now  I  saw,  looming  on  the 
eastern  horizon,  a  cloud  in  the  shape  of  a  man's  clenched 
fist  in  a  gauntleted  glove  of  mail. 

For  days  previously  the  frames  of  the  open  windows  that 
look  across  the  garden  seaward,  had  leaped  and  rattled  in 
answer  to  the  incessant  thud-thudding  of  big  naval  guns  at 
sea.  One  opal  dawn  showed  the  grim  shapes  of  super- 
Dreadnoughts,  Dreadnoughts,  pre-Dreadnoughts  and  war- 
cruisers,  strung  out  in  battle-line  along  the  glittering-green 
line  of  the  horizon,  escorted  by  a  flotilla  of  destroyers  and 
a  school  of  submarines.  Night  fell,  and  sea,  land,  and  sky 
alternately  whitened  and  blotted  in  the  wheeling  ray  of  the 
searchlights.  Electric  balls  dumbly  gibbered  in  Admiralty 
Secret  Code.  Gulls  cradled  on  the  glassy  waters  of  the 
Channel  must  have  been  roused  by  outbursts  of  full- 
throated  British  cheering,  and  the  crash  of  the  Fleet  bands 
striking  into  the  National  Anthem,  as  the  sealed  orders  of 
the  Supreme  Admiral  were  signalled  from  the  Flagship 
commanding  the  Southern  Fleet.  No  sound  reached  us 
ashore  but  the  hush  of  the  waves,  the  whisper  of  the  night- 
wind,  and  the  plaintive  ululation  of  the  mousing  owls  on 
Muttersmoor.  Yet  what  we  saw  that  night  was  the  awaken- 
ing of  Great  Britain  to  the  knowledge  that  her  greatness  is 
not  past  and  gone. 

Since  then,  the  menacing  cloud  in  the  east  has  assumed 
solidity.  The  mailed  fist  has  fallen,  imprinting  Ruin  on  the 
soti  of  a  neutral  country,  demolishing  the  matchless  heir- 

vii 


S135822 


viii  PREFACE 

looms  of  Art  and  the  priceless  treasures  of  Literature, 
bringing  down  in  gray  fragments  the  glories  of  Gothic 
architecture,  everywhere  destroying  the  Temple  of  God  and 
shattering  the  House  of  Life.  The  galleries  and  cabinets 
of  noble  and  burgher,  the  treasure-houses  of  a  nation  are 
plundered. 

We  have  lived  to  see  the  War  of  Nations.  We  are  in  it: 
fighting  as  our  Allies  of  Belgium,  France,  and  Russia  are 
fighting;  for  racial  name,  national  existence,  social  inde- 
pendence, and  freedom  of  bodies  and  souls.  And  this  being 
so,  I  see  no  cause  to  blot  a  line  that  I  have  written.  For 
the  Germany  of  1870  was  not  the  Germany  of  1914.  The 
New  Spirit  of  Teutonism  had  not  shown  itself  in  those  dead 
days  I  have  tried  to  vivify. 

The  Franco-Prussian  War  of  1870  was  waged  sternly 
and  mercilessly,  but  not  in  defiance  of  the  Rules  that  gov- 
ern the  Great  Game.  Treaties  were  held  as  something  more 
sacred  than  scraps  of  paper.  Blood  was  lavishly  poured 
out,  gold  relentlessly  wrung  from  the  coffers  of  a  van- 
quished and  impoverished  State.  Things  were  done — as  in 
the  instances  of  Bazeilles  and  Chateaudun  that  made  the 
world  shudder,  but  not  with  the  sickness  of  mortal  loathing. 
Kings  and  nobles  made  War  like  noblemen  and  Kings. 

Yet  that  great  Minister  whose  prodigious  labor  reared  up 
stone  by  stone  the  German  Empire  was,  unless  biographers 
have  lied,  haunted  and  obsessed  in  his  declining  days  by 
remorse  of  conscience  and  terrors  of  the  soul.  "But  for 
me,"  he  is  reported  to  have  said,  "three  great  wars  would 
not  have  been  made,  nor  would  eight  hundred  thousand  of 
my  fellow  men  have  died  by  violence.  Now,  for  all  that  I 
have  to  answer  before  Almighty  God!"  .  .  .  Could  the 
relentless  exponent  of  the  fierce  gospel  of  blood  and  iron 
have  foreseen  the  imminent,  approaching  disintegration  of 
his  colossal  life-work,  under  the  hands  of  his  successors — 
might  he  have  known  what  Dead  Sea  fruit  of  ashes  and 
bitterness  his  fatal  creed,  grafted  upon  the  oak  of  Ger- 
many, was  fated  to  bring  forth — he  would  have  drunk  ere 
death  of  the  crimson  lees  of  the  Cup  of  Judgment;  he 
would  have  seen  in  the  shape  of  his  pupil  the  grotesque, 
distorted  image  of  himself. 

RICHARD  DEHAN. 

SOUTH  DEVON,  November,  1914. 


THE  MAN  OF  IRON 


WHEN  Patrick  Carolan  Breagh  attained  the  age  of  six 
years,  the  boy  being  tall  enough  to  view  his  own  topknot 
of  scarlet  curls  and  freckled  snub  nose  in  the  big  shining 
mirror  of  his  stepmother's  toilet-table,  without  standing  on 
the  tin  bonnet-box  that  was  kept  under  the  chintz  cover, 
or  climbing  on  a  chair, — he  was  fated  to  acquire,  during 
one  brief  half-hour's  concealment  under  a  Pembroke  table, 
more  knowledge  of  Life,  Death,  and  the  value  of  Money, 
than  would  otherwise  have  come  to  him  in  the  course  of 
half  a  dozen  more  years. 

Upon  this  unf orgetable  third  of  January,  his  plaid  frock 
had  been  taken  off  and,  to  his  infinite  delight,  replaced  by 
a  little  pair  of  blue  cloth  breeches  and  a  roundabout  jacket. 
Amateurish  as  to  cut,  the  nether  garments  displaying  so 
little  difference  fore  and  aft  that  it  did  not  matter  in  the 
least  which  way  you  faced  when  you  stepped  into  them, 
they  were  yet  splendid, — not  only  in  Carolan 's  eyes.  Alan, 
his  junior  by  three  years,  bellowed  with  envy  on  beholding 
them;  and  four-year-old  Monica  sucked  her  finger  and 
stared  with  all  her  might. 

It  was  plain  to  Carolan  that,  having  once  assumed  the 
manly  garments,  no  boy  could  be  expected  to  put  on  those 
hateful  petticoats  again.  In  vain  Nurse  Povah, — who  had 
been  Carolan 's  foster-mother, — and  Miss  Josey,  the  gover- 
ness, explained  to  him  that  the  breeches  were  not  com- 
pleted, and  directed  his  eyes  to  the  mute  evidence  of  pins, 
chalk-marks,  and  yellow  basting-threads.  Their  arguments 
were  vain,  their  entreaties  addressed  to  deaf  ears.  An 
attempt  to  remove  the  cause  of  contention  by  force  resulted 
in  Nurse 's  being  butted,  though  not  hard !  and  Miss  Josey 
kicked  with  viciousness.  In  the  confusion  that  ensued,  the 
rebel  effected  an  escape  from  the  scene  of  combat.  And 
the  door  of  the  sitting-room  being  open,  Carolan  trotted 
across  the  Government  cocoanut  matting  of  the  landing 

1 


2  THE   MAN   OF   IRONi 

with  the  intention  of  confessing  his  own  misdeeds,  since 
Miss  Josey  was  quite  certain  to  report  him  at  headquarters, 
had  not  this  often-tested  method  of  blunting  the  edge  of 
retributory  justice  failed,  through  his  own  fault. 

For  upon  entering  the  large,  shabbily  furnished  room, 
situated  on  the  second  floor  of  a  gaunt,  gray  stone  building 
known  as  Block  D,  Married  Officers'  Quarters — the  room 
that  served  Captain  Breagh  and  his  second  wife  as  sitting- 
room,  dining-room,  smoking-room  and  boudoir — Carolan 
became  aware  that  his  stepmother,  quite  unconscious  of 
his  intrusion,  was  dusting  the  china  vases  on  the  mantel- 
shelf, and  was  instantly  possessed  by  the  conviction  that 
it  would  be  huge  fun  to  hide  under  the  large  round  table 
that  occupied  the  middle  of  the  worn  Brussels  carpet,  and 
bounce  out  upon  the  poor  lady  when  she  turned,  making 
her  say  "Owh!" 

So  the  boy  noiselessly  dived  under  the  deep,  hanging, 
silk-fringed  border  of  the  Indian  shawl  that  covered  the 
circular  Pembroke  table,  upon  which  were  ranged,  about  a 
central  basket  of  wax  fruit  and  flowers,  gilt  frames  with 
spotty  daguerrotypes,  albums  of  scraps,  Books  of  Beauty 
containing  the  loveliest  specimens  of  Early  Victorian  female 
aristocracy,  and  Garlands  of  Poetry  reeking  with  the  senti- 
mental effusions  of  Eliza  Cook  and  L.  E.  L.,  interspersed 
with  certain  card-cases  and  paper-knives  of  Indian  carved 
ivory  and  sandal-wood,  and  other  trifles  of  brass  and 
filigree  ware. 

The  big,  shabbily  furnished  second-floor  room  had  three 
windows  looking  out  upon  the  graveled  expanse  of  the 
Parade-ground,  and  commanding  a  view  of  the  flower- 
bedded  patch  of  sacred  green  turf,  inclosed  by  posts  and 
chains,  that  graced  the  front  of  the  pillared,  pedimented, 
and  porticoed  building  that  housed  the  Officers '  Mess.  And 
when  the  regiment  got  the  route  for  another  garrison  town, 
nearly  everything  the  room  contained — from  the  Pem- 
broke center-table  and  chintz-covered  sofa,  to  the  secre- 
taire at  which  Captain  Breagh  penned  his  letters,  the  big 
leather-covered  arm-chair  in  which  he  sat,  and  the  Bengal 
tiger-skin  hearthrug, — would  be  packed, — with  the  picture 
of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  at  the  Battle  of  Vimiera,  and 
the  chimney-glass  over  which  it  always  hung — into  wooden 
cases,  with  the  before-mentioned  chimney -glass,  curtains  and 
carpets,  beds,  baths,  uniform-cases  and  a  great  number 


THE    MAN    OF,   IRON  3 

of  other  things;  and  then  after  a  period  of  rumbling  con- 
fusion there  would  be  a  new  sitting-room  looking  on  an- 
other barrack-square,  other  bedrooms  and  a  fresh  nursery, 
— and  Carolan  would  forget  the  old  ones  in  something 
under  a  week.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  regiment  had  been 
shifted  four  times  since  its  return  from  India,  when  Caro- 
lan was  little  more  than  a  baby,  and  Monica  and  Alan  and 
Baba  were  nowhere  at  all. 

Now  either  Mrs.  Breagh  occupied  an  unconscionable 
time  in  dusting  the  vases  and  making  up  the  fire  for  her 
Captain,  who  by  reason  of  long  service  with  the  regiment 
in  the  East  was  susceptible  to  chill;  or  Carolan,  with  the 
mental  instability  shared  by  the  child  and  the  savage,  lost 
interest  in  his  new  project  and  abandoned  it.  He  was 
squatting  silently  in  his  hiding-place  when  Miss  Josey 
entered;  he  heard  her  complaint,  noted  down  two  spiteful 
exaggerations  and  one  malicious  falsehood,,  and  witnessed 
the  exhibition  of  a  bulgy  ankle  in  a  badly-gartered  white 
cotton  stocking  surmounting  an  elastic-sided  cloth  boot. 
When  the  governess  withdrew,  consoled  by  Mrs.  Breagh 's 
sympathy,  Nurse  Povah  was  summoned  from  the  other 
side  of  the  landing  by  a  tinkle  of  the  hand-bell,  and  bore 
stout  witness  on  the  culprit's  side. 

"Did  ye  see  her  leg,  I'd  make  so  bould  as  ask,  or  did 
ye  take  her  worrud  for  ut?  And — av  there  was  anythin' 
to  show  barrin '  a  flaybite,  is  ut  natheral  a  boy  wud  parrut 
wid  his  furrst  breches  widout  a  kick?  Sure,  they're  the 
apple  av  his  eye,  and  the  joy  av  his  harrut!  And  her — 
wid  her  talk  av  bendin'  his  will  and  breakin'  his  temper! 
is  ut  like  ye  wud  lay  a  finger  on  the  Captain's  eldest  son, 
to  plaze  the  likes  of  her?" 

"The  Captain  has  said  himself — over  and  over — that  a 
sound  thrashing  would  be  a  capital  thing  for  Carry, ' '  Mrs. 
Breagh  returned. 

'  *  He  praiches — ayv  bedad ! — but  does  he  ever  practuss  ? ' ' 
demanded  Nurse,  smoothing  her  apron  with  stout,  matronly 
hands,  and  getting  very  red  in  the  cheeks.  "Niver  fear 
but  he'd  be  too  wise  to  bring  a  curse  upon  himself  by  ill- 
thrating  a  motherless  child ! ' ' 

"Motherless!"  What  did  the  word  mean?  Carolan  won- 
dered, recalling  how  Nurse  would  describe  some  particularly 
down-hearted  person  as  being  as  long  in  the  jaw  as  a 
motherless  calf.  And  now  Mrs.  Breagh  was  saying,  in  the 


4  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

kind  of  voice  some  good  people  use  for  the  purpose  of 
Scriptural  quotation,  and  which  is  not  in  the  least  like 
their  accents  of  every  day  .  .  . 

"Solomon  said,  'He  that  spareth  the  rod' — but  you 
Catholics  never  seem  to  read  the  Bible.  And  I  always 
treat  Carolan  as  if  he  were  my  own  child — and  you  know 
I  do!  'Ssh!  Here  comes  the  Captain — and  I  think  I 
hear  Baba  crying.  ..." 

And  Nurse,  with  the  honors  of  war,  retired  to  the 
nursery  on  the  other  side  of  the  landing,  as  Captain 
Breagh's  hasty  footsteps  and  the  jingle  of  his  scabbard 
were  heard  on  the  stone  stair.  A  minute  later  he  entered 
the  room.  But  during  the  minute's  interval  Carolan  had 
had  time  to  ponder,  mentally  digest  and  form  a  conclusion 
from  what  he  had  just  heard. 

It  had  never  previously  occurred  to  him  that  the  stout, 
dark,  beady-eyed,  brightly  dressed  lady  whom  he  had  been 
taught  to  call  Mamma  was  not  really  his  mother,  but  he 
knew  it -now.  It  was  revealed  to  him  in  one  lightning- 
flash  of  comprehension  that  this  was  the  reason  why  her 
hands  felt  so  like  hands  of  wood  whenever  they  touched 
him,  and  why  her  kiss, — religiously  administered  night  and 
morning — was  a  thing  he  would  much  sooner  have  gone 
without.  He  knew, — and  something  inside  him  was  glad 
to  know — that  it  was  not  wicked  of  him  not  to  love  her  as 
he  loved  Nurse,  or  Monica,  or  Ponto  the  brown  retriever. 
And  then  his  heart  dropped  like  a  leaden  plummet  to  the 
pit  of  his  infant  stomach.  This  was  to  be  a  day  of  dis- 
coveries. He  had  discovered  that  by  kicking  out  lustily  it 
had  been  possible  to  resist  the  forcible  removal  of  his  new 
breeches.  He  had  discovered  that  "Mamma"  was  not  his 
real,  real  mother !  Would  Daddy  turn  out  to  be  Monica 's 
and  Alan's  and  Baba's  Daddy,  and  not  Carolan 's,  after 
all? 

A  sob  rose  in  his  throat,  and  his  hot,  dry  eyes  began  to 
smart  and  water.  But  the  manly  trampling  and  clanking 
came  nearer.  The  door  opened — his  father  was  in  the  room. 
He  could  only  see  his  shiny  "Wellington  boots,  and  the 
bottoms  of  the  red-striped  dark  blue  breeches  that  were 
strapped  over  them.  But  familiar  knowledge  built  from 
the  boots  the  handsome  manly  figure  in  the  light  brick-red 
coat  with  the  Royal  blue  facings,  the  China  and  Punjab 
war-medals,  the  crimson  sash  and  the  other  martial  ac- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  5 

couterments  topped  by  the  stiff  leather  stock,  and  the  head 
whose  wealth  of  jet-black  curls  and  luxuriant  bushy 
whiskers  might  have  been  the  glory  of  a  fashionable  hair- 
dresser 's  window ;  in  combination  with  the  well-cut  features, 
light  blue  eyes,  and  fine  rosy  complexion,  as  yet  scarcely 
deteriorated  by  Mess  port,  whisky  punch,  and  late 
hours. 

Captain  Breagh  kissed  Mrs.  Breagh  with  a  hearty  smack 
that  made  Carolan  start  in  his  hiding-place,  and  said  the 
wind  was  enough  to  cut  you  in  two,  and  that  the  fire 
looked  tempting;  as  he  laid  down  his  pipeclayed  gloves 
and  dress-schako  with  the  gilt  grenade  and  white  ball-tuft 
on  the  aged  and  dilapidated  sideboard,  and  permitted  his 
lady  to  relieve  him  of  his  sword.  Then  he  rubbed  his  hands 
and  thrust  them  to  the  blaze  enjoy ingly,  and  threw  him- 
self into  the  creaking  leathern  arm-chair.  This,  it  sud- 
denly occurred  to  Carclan,  would  be  a  favorable  moment 
for  emerging  from  concealment.  He  had  got  on  all-fours, 
ready  to  appear  in  the  character  of  a  bear  or  tiger,  when 
Mrs.  Breagh  stopped  him  by  beginning  to  tell  tales.  The 
child  was  beyond  control,  she  declared — there  was  no  end 
to  his  naughtiness.  For  the  sake  of  his  immortal  soul, 
something  would  have  to  be  done.  .  .  . 

"What's  he  been  doing?  For  my  own  part, — I  wouldn't 
give  a  brass  farthing  for  a  pup  that  wouldn't  bite,  or  a 
boy  that  wouldn't  show  fight  when  he  was  put  to  it!" 
The  arm-chair  creaked  suggestively  as  the  Captain  stretched 
out  his  legs,  and  the  firelight  danced  in  the  polish  of  his 
boots,  hardly  dimmed  by  the  dry  gravel  of  the  Parade- 
ground.  "And  it's  in  the  blood,  that  high  spirit.  Don't 
suppose  I'm  bragging  that  the  Breaghs  are  any  great 
shakes  in  the  way  of  family ! — though  the  name 's  as  decent 
a  one  as  you'll  meet  in  a  long  day's  march.  But  Carolan 's 
a  Fermeroy  on  the  mother's  side — and  they're  a  hot- 
headed, high-handed  breed,"  the  Captain  added,  taking 
the  newspaper  from  the  Pembroke  table,  "and  have  been 
ever  since  the  year  One — if  you  take  the  trouble  to  look 
'em  up  in  Irish  History.  Not  that  I've  ever  read  any, 
but  my  poor  Milly  used  to  say " 

His  wife's  eyes  snapped  with  irrepressible  jealousy  at 
the  reference  to  her  predecessor. 

' '  And  everything  that  came  from  her  you  took  for  Gospel, 
I  suppose?" 


6  THE    MAN   OF,   IRON 

"Pretty  near!"  said  Captain  Breagh,  and  began  to 
unfold  his  newspaper. 

"I  get  little  enough  time  for  reading  things  that  are 
useful,"  said  Mrs.  Breagh,  as  the  Captain  dipped  into  the 
crackling  sheets.  "It  was  my  bounden  duty  to  speak, 
and  I've  done  it!  And  if  you  think  you  are  doing  your 
duty  by  the  child — let  alone  his  mother " 

She  broke  off,  for  the  Captain  bounced  in  his  chair,  and 
dashed  down  the  newspaper. 

"Haven't  I  told  you  I  won't  have  poor  Milly's  name 
dragged  into  these  discussions!  She's  dead! — and  so  let 
her  be!" 

If  a  lady  can  be  said  to  snort,  Mrs.  Breagh  gave  utter- 
ance to  a  sound  of  that  nature. 

"I'm  willing,  Alexander,  I'm  sure!  But  all  things  con- 
sidered, I  must  say  I  think  it's  a  pity  her  ladyship  died 
and  left  you  a  widower ! ' ' 

"And  you're  right  there,  begad  you  are!  And  how 
many  times  have  I  told  you  she  was  merely  an  Honor- 
able, and  not  her  ladyship!"  He  left  the  newspaper 
sprawling  on  the  hearthrug,  and  mechanically  reaching 
down  his  pipe  and  tobacco-pouch  from  the  corner  of  the 
mantelshelf,  proceeded  to  fill  the  well-browned  meer- 
schaum, and  when  his  wife  lighted  a  spill  and  held  it  to 
him  as  an  olive-branch,  he  thanked  her  in  an  absent  way. 
What  did  the  Captain  see  as  he  pulled  at  the  gnawed, 
amber  mouthpiece  and  stared  into  the  red-hot  heart  of 
the  fire,  communing  with  that  other  self  that  dwells  within 
every  man? 


n 

I  THINK  he  saw  young  Alex  Breagh,  a  junior  Lieutenant 
of  the  Grenadier  company  of  the  Royal  Ennis  Regiment 
of  Infantry,  winning  his  spurs  of  manhood  under  Gough 
and  Hardinge  and  Gilbert  on  the  plain  beside  the  Sutlej, 
where  stands  Ferozshahr. 

"For  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  hero  or  anything  of  that 
sort,  but  I've  never  shirked  my  share  of  fighting,"  said  the 
silent  voice  within  him,  and  the  Captain  exhaled  a  spirt  of 
smoke  and  mumbled:  "I  believe  you!"  And  the  other 
Breagh  went  on: 


THE   MAN   OF,   IRON  £ 

"Fair  play  and  no  favor  won  us  our  honors,  mind  you! 
though  the  chance  didn't  come  until  later  on.  True,  we 
helped  Sir  Harry  Smith  to  pound  the  Sikhs  at  Ferozshahr 
and  at  Aliwal,  when  the  cavalry  of  his  Right  had  driven 
the  Khalsas  back  across  the  Bed  Ford.  Waiting  for  the 
elephants  with  the  heavy  siege-guns  and  the  ammunition 
and  stores  to  come  up  from  Delhi,  took  a  hell  of  a  time. 
Seven  long  weeks  of  broiling  by  day  and  freezing  o '  nights, 
while  Tij  Sinh  and  his  thirty-five  thousand  Khalsas  en- 
trenched themselves,  mounted  their  heavy  artillery — made 
their  bridge  of  boats,  and  encamped  their  cavalry  up  the 
river.  But  the  day  came — our  day! — and  I  don't  forget 
that  foggy  tenth  of  February  while  I  'm  breathing. ' ' 

Captain  Breagh  sucked  at  his  pipe  and  reflectively  pulled! 
a  whisker.  And  the  silent  voice  went  on : 

"We  were  with  the  Left  Division  under  General  Dick, 
and  led  the  assault,  while  Gilbert  and  Smith  feigned  to 
attack  on  the  enemy 's  left  and  center.  And  in  that  charge, 
— when  the  General  got  his  death-wound  from  a  swivel- 
ball, — I  was  the  second  red-coat  to  cross  the  ditch,  and 
scramble  over  the  big  mud  rampart,  and  saber  a  Sikh 
gunner  with  his  linstock  in  his  hand!  ..." 

Mrs.  Breagh,  chagrined  at  remaining  so  long  the  object 
of  her  husband's  inattention,  picked  up  his  fallen  news- 
paper and  almost  timidly  laid  it  on  his  knee.  And  the 
child  under  the  table  kept  as  quiet  as  a  mouse,  al- 
most .  .  . 

' '  Thank  ye,  my  dear ! ' '  said  the  Captain,  while  the  other 
Breagh  went  on : 

"And  when  the  Treaty  was  signed  and  the  rumpus  all 
over — for  the  time ! — because  Dalhousie  's  bungling  brought 
the  hornets  about  our  ears  again! — we  marched  from 
Lahore  to  Calcutta  with  Britain 's  victorious  army — barring 
the  force  we  'd  left  with  Lawrence  at  Mian  Mir. ' ' 

The  silence  continuing,  Mrs.  Breagh  drew  her  work- 
table  toward  her,  and  began  to  look  over  a  basket  of  little 
toeless  and  heel-less  stockings.  As  she  did  this  she  sighed. 
The  Captain  smoked  thoughtfully.  And  the  inward  voice 
went  on: 

' '  The  Governor-General  and  his  staff  rode  with  Sir  Harry 
Smith  and  the  Advance — and  between  the  Cavalry  Brigade 
that  came  after  'em — for  Sir  Harry  swore  he  'd  be  damned 
but  since  we'd  seen  the  hottest  of  the  fighting,  we  should 


8  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

have  the  post  of  honor! — between  the  Cavalry  and  Ours 
came  the  spoils  of  war,  drawn  by  the  Government  elephants 
— two  hundred  and  fifty  Sikh  guns  we'd  taken  at  Sobraon. 
Hah!" 

The  Captain's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  fire.  He  smoked 
in  quick,  short  puffs. 

"Standards  waving,  bands  blowing  their  heads  off,  and 
a  bit  o '  loot  in  most  men 's  knapsacks.  Glory  for  the  dead, 
and  praise  and  promotion  for  the  living — begad!  it  was 
worth  while — just  then! — to  be  a  British  soldier!  And 
I'd  been  wounded  just  enough  to  look  interesting,  and  got 
a  Special  Mention  in  Despatches — and  the  women  were 
pulling  caps  for  me, — devil  a  lie  in  that!  And  I  danced 
with  Milly  at  the  Welcome  Back  Ball  at  Government 
House,  in  March,  1846.  And  whether  it  was  Fate — or 
that  way  she  had  of  looking  up  under  her  eyelashes,  and 
showing  a  laughing  mouth  full  of  tiny  pearly-white  teeth 
over  the  top  of  her  fan,  I've  never  been  quite  clear.  But 
even  before  the  steward  introduced  Lieutenant  Breagh  to 
the  Hon.  Millicent  Fermeroy,  I'd  fallen  head  over  ears  in 
love  with  Milly,  and  she  was  as  mad  for  me ! ' ' 

Still  silence  reigned  in  the  room,  only  broken  by  the 
cinders  falling  on  the  hearth,  and  the  breathing  of  three 
people.  Mrs.  Breagh  still  bent  over  her  basket  of  little 
worn  socks,  of  which  those  in  most  crying  need  of  darning 
belonged  to  Carolan.  Her  lips  were  tightly  closed,  but  as 
the  man  within  her  husband  talked  to  the  man,  the  woman 
within  the  woman  talked  to  his  wife. 

"I  wonder  whether  he  knows  I  know  he's  thinking  of 
tier  again  ?  I  wonder  whether  she  'd  have  liked  to  sit  and 
toil  and  moil  for  a  child  of  mine,  and  know  that  the  other 
woman  held  the  first  place  in  his  heart?  Ah,  dear  me !" 

She  glanced  at  her  husband.  He  did  not  see  her.  He 
was  living  in  the  Past. 

"Nobody  noticed  how  often  we  danced  together.  .  .  . 
It  had  gone  pretty  far  with  us  before  Her  Ladyship  scented 
what  was  in  the  wind,  and  sent  an  aide-de-camp  to  remind 
Miss  Fermeroy  that  the  doctor  had  set  down  his  foot  against 
her  overheating  herself  with  waltzing, — and  I  found  myself 
staring  after  her  with  her  bouquet  in  my  hand.  .  .  .  And 
I  took  it  home  to  quarters — and  I've  got  it  now,  stowed 
away  with  her  letters  and  a  lot  of  other  things  in  a  tin 
uniform-case.  .  .  .  Fanny  hasn  't  an  idea  of  that ! ' ' 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  9 

The  smoke-puffs  came  more  slowly,  and  the  darning- 
needle  now  worked  busily.  The  voice  of  a  sergeant  who 
was  drilling  a  squad  of  recruits  came  in  gruff  barks  from 
the  Parade. 

"The  Fermeroys  were  great  folks.  .  .  .  Colonel  Lord 
Augustus  Fermeroy — Milly  's  uncle,  was  a  tremendous  Light 
Cavalry  swell  on  the  Commander-in- Chief's  Staff.  Of 
course,  I  knew  that  he  would  never  hear  of  an  engagement 
between  his  brother's  orphan  daughter — (to  do  the  old 
man  justice,  he  loved  her  as  his  own!) — and  a  Lieutenant 
of  a  marching  regiment  of  infantry  who  'd  nothing  but  his 
pay.  So — as  Milly  and  me  had  made  up  our  minds  we 
couldn  't  live  without  each  other, — we  were  married  secretly 
— first  at  a  Protestant  Mission  Church,  and  then  by  a 
French  Franciscan  padre — and  he  made  bones  about  spli- 
cing us — because  I  wasn't  a  Catholic, — and  if  I  hadn't 
told  a  white  lie  or  two  about  my  intention  of  turning 
Papist,  I  don't  believe  he'd  have  tied  the  knot.  But  all's 
fair  in  love! — and  we  were  in  love  with  a  vengeance.  I 
suppose  I  was  a  selfish  beggar  to  coax  Milly  into  deceiving 
her  people,  but " 

A  long  ray  of  chilly  January  sunshine,  full  of  dancing 
dust-motes,  came  in  at  the  window.  Mrs.  Breagh  sneezed 
as  it  fell  across  her  face. 

"A  time  came  when  I  knew  I  had  been  as  selfish  as  she 
never  would  have  called  me.  People  had  to  be  told ! — so 
we  enlightened  'em  by  shooting  the  moon.  The  condition 
of  my  war-chest  wasn't  over  and  above  flourishing,  but  I 
got  a  month 's  leave  for  the  Mofussil  and  secured  a  twenty- 
rupee  furnished  bungalow  at  Titteghur — and  next  morning 
— before  the  hue  and  cry  had  well  begun,  Lady  Augustus 
got  a  chit  from  Milly  by  harkdra — I  remember  every  word 
of  it.  'Dearest  Aunt, — I  hope  you  have  not  been  alarmed, 
supposing  me  to  have  been  murdered  or  carried  off  by 
wicked  persons.  I  am  safe  and  happy  with  my  own  dear 
husband,  from  whom  I  shall  never  be  parted  now.'  ' 

The  pipe  was  nearly  smoked  out,  but  the  Captain  did 
not  appear  aware  of  that. 

"  'Never  be  parted,'  and  before  three  months  were  over 
our  heads  ..." 

Clash !  Mrs.  Breagh  had  let  her  scissors  fall.  Her  hus- 
band made  a  long  arm,  picked  them  up,  and  gave  them 
back  to  her. 


10  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Thank  you,  Alex,  love!"  said  Mrs.  Breagh  effusively. 
But  he  went  on  sucking  at  the  now  empty  pipe,  and  staring 
at  the  waning  fire.  And  the  silent  voice  went  on : 

"The  Fermeroys  were  furious.  But  there  was  no  use  in 
making  a  fuss  and  a  scandal,  and  I  must  say  they  took  the 
blow  awfully  well.  Good  haters  both — declared  that  under 
no  conceivable  circumstances  would  they  ever  admit  within 
their  doors  an  officer  who  had  acted  so  dishonorably,  but 
they'd  receive  Milly  whenever  she  liked  to  come.  Nor 
would  they — though  her  uncle  was  her  guardian  and  trus- 
tee— deprive  her  of  her  fortune — seven  thousand  pounds 
in  East  India  Stock,  Home  Rails,  and  Government  Three 
Per  Cents.  But  they  tied  it  up  tight  for  the  benefit  of  the 
child  that  was  coming,  and  others  that  might  come — in 
what  they  called  a  Post-Matrimonial  Settlement,  and  I 
was  agreeable;  though,  mind  you! — I  had  the  law  on  my 
side  if  I  'd  chosen  to  make  a  fuss.  And  I  was  too  much  in 
love  to  bother  over  money — or  to  care  a  cowrie  about  being 
cut  by  the  Fermeroys'  friends." 

Nothing  but  gray  ashes  remained  in  the  pipe-bowl. 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  wasn't  to  get  me  out  of  the 
way  that  the  regiment  was  ordered  to  Sikandarabad. 
There  'd  been  a  Sepoy  rising  at  Haidarabad,  six  miles  north 
of  the  Subsidiary  Force's  cantonments — and  as  the  big 
Mussulman  city  was  swarming  with  all  the  blackguards 
and  budmashes  in  the  Dekkan — and  bazar-gup  had  it  that 
another  Rohilla  riot  was  threatening — Ours  got  the  route 
to  go.  And  Milly — God  bless  her !  wouldn  't  hear  of  being 
left  behind.  And  we  steamed  down  coast  to  Masulipatam, 
and  marched  the  two  hundred  miles;  and  though  it  was 
early  in  January,  the  roads  were  confoundedly  squashy  and 
the  heat  was  like  a  vapor-bath — there  being  no  winter  to 
speak  of  in  the  South." 

"He's  in  a  regular  brown  study,"  said  her  unseen  gossip 
and  confidante  to  the  Captain's  second  wife.  "Perhaps 
his  tailor  has  been  dunning  him,  or  he's  been  losing  at 
cards.  When  men  are  out  of  spirits,  money's  generally 
at  the  bottom  of  it!  Better  get  him  to  tell  what's  the 
matter  by-and-by — not  now!" 

"And  the  long  road  ran  like  a  brown  snake  between 
mangrove-swamps  and  paddy-fields,  where  it  wasn't  coffee- 
plantations  and  cotton-ground.  And  there  were  black- 
buck  and  partridge  for  the  shooting  when  you  could  get 


THE   MAN   OF   IRON  11 

away  from  the  columns ;  and  duck  and  snipe  when  we  were 
hung  up  at  the  river-fords  waiting  for  the  elephants  that 
were  to  take  over  the  baggage  and  guns." 

The  shouts  of  the  drill-sergeant  came  more  faintly  from 
the  Parade-ground.  The  Captain  seemed  to  doze  as  he 
sucked  at  the  empty  pipe,  but  Memory's  voice  went 
on:  ' 

"The  women  and  children  of  the  rank  and  file  were 
carried  on  the  baggage- wagons,  and  the  officers'  wives 
traveled  by  bullock-tfongra  or  palki-dak,  under  an  escort  of 
good-conduct  men  of  the  Subsidiary  Force  the  Brigadier 
had  sent  down  from  cantonments.  Milly  laughed  at  their 
oilskin-covered  wickerwork  chimney-pot  hats  and  little  old 
red  coatees,  and  black  unmentionables  and  bare  sandaled 
feet.  But  they  couldn't  keep  the  beggars  of  bearers  from 
turning  out  of  the  road  and  taking  short-cuts  through 
jungle-paths.  Then  they'd  dump  the  palkis  down  in  the 
shade,  and  light  a  fire  of  sticks,  and  squat  round  and  smoke 
their  hubble-bubbles  or  chew  betel.  .  .  .  And  Milly 's 
blackguards  had  gone  out  of  sight  behind  some  trees,  and 
she  was  scared  at  finding  herself  alone  and  unprotected. 
And  she  tried  to  be  calm  and  plucky,  thinking  of — what 
she  and  me  were  looking  for.  .  .  .  But  something  trotted 
out  of  a  cane-brake  and  snuffed  at  the  palki  curtains — and 
she  went  off  in  a  dead  faint  and  small  blame  to  her !  For 
there  were  the  prints  of  a  full-grown  tiger's  pugs  in  the 
soft  ground  round  the  palanquin — and  the  place  where 
his  hind-claws  had  torn  up  the  grass  when  he  bounded 
off.  .  .  ." 

The  forgotten  pipe  was  upside  down  in  the  smoker's 
mouth  now.  A  pinch  of  ashes  had  fallen  upon  the  breast 
of  the  unhooked  scarlet  coat. 

"When  I  came  up  I  made  those  coolie-brutes  eat  plenty 
stick.  But  Milly — poor  girl !  had  got  her  death-blow.  And 
the  boy  was  born  that  night  under  canvas  by  the  roadside. 
An  old  Murderer — Surgeon-Major  Murdoch  of  Ours — did 
all  man  could  do  to  save  her.  But — just  at  dawn — with 
the  eastern  sky  all  lemon-yellow  and  pink  and  madder  be- 
hind a  mango-tope,  with  a  Hindu  temple  near  it,  and  a 
clump  of  mud  huts — and  some  old  saint's  shrine  under  a 
sacred  peepul-tree — the  boy  was  born  and  the  mother 
went  out  like  a  blown  waxlight.  Oh,  my  darling!  .  .  . 
And  the  Catholic  chaplain — who'd  been  fetched  to  give 


12  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

Milly  the  Last  Sacraments — baptized  the  boy,  for  Milly 
had  made  me  swear  all  the  children  should  be  of  her  faith. 
And  the  boy  would  have  died,  too,  but  that  my  company 
Sergeant's  wife — she  that  is  nurse  to  my  youngest  child 
to-day — happened  to  be  able  and  willing  to  suckle  him. 
And  we  struck  camp  and  set  out  on  the  last  march,  carry- 
ing a  corpse  and  a  new-born  baby.  And  that  night  we 
buried  my  girl  by  torchlight  in  the  cemetery  belonging  to 
the  European  infantry-barracks.  And  it's  six  years  ago 
to-day — and  here  I  am  married  to  another  woman!  Are 
you  happy  with  her,  Alex  Breagh?  She's  as  unlike  the 
other  as  chalk's  different  from  cheese — and  poor  Milly  'ud 
have  called  her  a  vulgar  person!  I  know  she  would! 
And  yet — Milly  never  gave  me  a  decent  meal,  and  the 
servants  did  as  they  liked!  and  Fanny's  a  rare  house- 
keeper. I've  been  more  comfortable  since  I  married  her 
than  I  ever  was  in  my  life  before.  Yes,  I'm  a  happy 
man!  .  .  ." 

He  told  Himself  this  continually.  And  yet  the  knowl- 
edge of  material  comfort  could  not  long  silence  the  crying 
of  his  heart. 

He  took  the  smoked-out  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  turned 
to  look  at  the  plump,  high-colored,  personable  woman  who 
was  sitting  darning  his  children's  stockings  with  his  wed- 
ding-ring shining  on  her  finger,  and  the  present  had  its 
value  for  him,  and  he  ceased  to  company  with  the  dead. 
His  regard,  at  first  chill  and  gloomy,  warmed:  his  good- 
humored  smile  curled  his  full  red  lips  again.  .  .  . 

' '  Why,  how  you  look,  love ! ' '  said  Mrs.  Breagh,  and  she 
rose  and  came  to  his  side.  Then  she  sat  on  his  knee  and 
smoothed  his  hair  from  his  forehead.  And  the  Captain 
returned  her  kiss,  and  told  himself  that  true  wisdom  lay 
in  making  the  best  of  one's  luck  generally,  and  being 
grateful  for  whatever  good  the  gods  chose  to  grant. 

"No  use  crying  over  spilt  milk!  .  .  .  Beg  pardon,  my 
dear! — but  what  were  you  asking  me?" 

"I  was  asking — supposing  Carolan  had  never  been  born 
— or  had  died — whether  you  would  have  come  into  his 
mother's  money?" 

' '  Would  I  have  inherited  Milly 's  seven  thousand  pounds  ?, 
Not  a  halfpenny  of  it,  my  dear!  In  the  event  of  her  de- 
cease without,  issue  it  would  have  gone  back  to  her  family. 
And  even  during  Milly 's  lifetime  she  only  had  the  half- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  13 

yearly  interest.  Couldn't  sell  out  stock,  or  raise  a  lump 
sum  for — ahem! — for  the  benefit  of  any  person  she'd  a 
mind  to  help.  And  husband  and  wife  are  one  flesh,  so  the 
Bible  tells  you!" 

"The  poor  thing  that's  gone  ought  to  have  had  more 
spirit  than  to  let  you  be  treated  so ! "  said  the  second  wife, 
who  had  possessed  no  fortune  beyond  a  hundred  pounds 
or  so,  bestowed  as  dowry  on  his  younger  daughter  by  the 
hard- worked  apothecary  of  an  English  country  town;  and 
was  conscious  that  in  marrying  her  the  Captain  had  not 
aspired  to  a  union  above  his  social  rank. 

"Begad!  my  dear!  I  don't  mind  owning  that  Lord 
Augustus  hated  me,  from  the  top  hair  of  my  head  to  the 
last  peg  in  my  boot-sole.  And — when  he  died — and  he 
did  go  over  to  the  majority  not  long  after  the  Fermeroys 
had  sailed  for  England  with  Lord  Hardinge — when  he  died 
it  didn't  make  a  pin's  difference,  for  under  that  settlement 
I  've  told  you  of,  the  co-trustee,  a  solicitor — Mr.  Mustey,  of 
Furnival's  Inn,  Holborn,  London — took  his  son, — who'd 
been  made  partner  in  his  business — as  his  partner  in  the 
trusteeship.  And,  of  course,  the  money's  the  boy's! — 
though  the  two-hundred-and-twenty-odd  annual  interest  is 
paid  to  me — the  whole  of  it! — until  Carry's  old  enough  to 
go  to  school  and  college — and  when  he  reaches  twenty- 
three  the  whole  lump  of  the  principal  will  be  his — seven 
thousand  golden  sovereigns — to  play  ducks  and  drakes  with 
if  he  likes!" 

"And  my  poor  darlings  will  have  nothing,"  Mrs.  Breagh 
bleated,  "unless,- — because  I've  treated  Carolan  in  all 
respects — and  more! — as  if  he  were  my  own  child,  and 
that  I  would  declare  with  my  head  upon  my  dying  pillow ! 
— unless  he  has  the  gratitude  and  the  decent  feeling  to  do 
something  for  Alan, — if  it 's  only  giving  him  a  few  hundreds 
to  start  him  properly  in  life.  ..." 

"Don't  count  your  chickens  before  they're  hatched," 
advised  her  lord.  "My  dear,  if  you'll  get  me  the  materials 
from  the  sideboard,  I'll  wet  my  whistle.  Talking 's  dry 
work!" 

With  wifely  compliance  Mrs.  Breagh  placed  the  whisky- 
decanter  and  the  Delhi  clay-bottle  of  drinking-water  near 
her  Alexander's  elbow.  You  are  to  imagine  the  Captain 
mixing  a  jorum  on  half-and-half  principles,  nodding  to  his 
Fanny,  and  taking  a  refreshing  swig  of  the  cooling  draft. 


14  THE    MAN    OF,   IRON 

And  at  this  juncture  a  head  of  scarlet  curls  was  poked  out 
from  the  covert  of  the  Indian  shawl  tablecloth,  and  the 
clear  treble  of  his  eldest  son  piped  out : 

"Dad a,  how  much  money  is  seven  fousand  golding  sov- 
ereigns? And  how  long  will  it  be  before  I  get  them  to 
make  ducks  and  drakes?" 


Ill 

You  are  to  suppose  Captain  Breagh,  startled  by  the  un- 
expected apparition  of  his  eldest  son,  swallowing  the  whole 
jorum  of  whisky  and  water  at  a  gulp,  and  his  wife  drop- 
ping her  darning  into  her  lap  with  the  very  exclamation 
Carolan  had  previously  promised  himself.  Still  as  a  mouse, 
he  had  lain  in  ambush  beneath  the  Pembroke  table,  with 
the  portrait  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  on  a  gray  charger 
in  the  foreground  of  the  highly  varnished  oil-painting — 
representing  the  Royal  Ennis  Regiment  in  the  perform- 
ance of  prodigies  of  gallantry  in  conflict  with  the  French 
at  Vimiera — staring  with  bolting  blue  eyes,  and  pointing 
at  him  with  a  Field-Marshal's  baton  whenever  he  had 
peeped  out. 

Now,  conscious  of  having  made  an  impression,  and  with 
a  curious  mixture  of  sensations,  emotions,  impulses,  fer- 
menting in  a  brain  of  six  years,  the  boy  stood  upright 
before  his  elders,  his  well-knit  shoulders  thrown  back,  his 
sturdy  legs,  arrayed  in  their  virile  coverings  of  blue  cloth 
adorned  with  cat-stitches  of  yellow  basting-thread,  planted 
wide  apart  upon  the  tiger-skin  hearthrug,  and  his  stomach 
thrust  forward  with  the  arrogance  characteristic  of  the 
newly  made  capitalist. 

' '  Why  the  devil  were  you  hiding  there  ?  Eh,  you  young 
Turk,  you?"  blustered  the  Captain. 

"Eavesdroppers,"  said  Mrs.  Breagh  acidly,  "never  go 
to  Heaven." 

"Farver  Haygarty "  Carolan  began. 

' '  We  don 't  want  to  know  what  Father  Haygarty  says ! ' ' 
snapped  Mrs.  Breagh,  whose  Protestant  gorge  rose  at  the 
Papistical  teachings  of  the  regimental  chaplain.  And  then 
she  remembered  that  in  a  few  years  the  worldly  prospects 
of  her  three  children  might  depend  on  the  good- will  of  this 


THE    MAN   OF    IRON  15 

chubby-faced,  red-haired  urchin  who  stood  silently  before 
her,  contemplating  her  with  a  new  expression  in  a  very 
round  pair  of  oddly  amber-flecked  gray  eyes.  And  being 
a  weak,  ill-balanced,  underbred  woman,  and  a  mother  into 
the  bargain,  she  truckled,  as  such  women  will,  to  the  latent 
potentialities  vested  in  the  stubborn  wearer  of  the  unfin- 
ished suit  of  clothes. 

"Not  but  what  Father  Haygarty  is  a  good  man  and 
much  respected — and  I  dare  say  you're  sorry  for  having 
kicked  poor  Josey.  So,  since  it's  your  birthday  we  won't 
say  any  more  about  it — and  Nurse  shall  pull  out  those 
basting-threads  and  sew  on  the  brace-buttons  when  you're 
in  bed  to-night " 

"There!  you  hear!  Stop,  you  young  rascal!  Come 
back  and  kiss  your  mother,  and  thank  her,  and  run  away 
to  Mrs.  Povah ! ' '  bade  the  Captain,  for  Carolan,  driving  a 
pair  of  grubby  fists  deep  into  the  pockets  of  the  new 
breeches,  had  swung  contemptuously  upon  his  heel,  and 
made  for  the  door. 

"She's  not  my  muwer!"  said  the  son,  pausing  in  his 
struggle  with  the  door-handle  to  turn  a  flushed  and  frown- 
ing face  upon  his  sire.  "She  said  so  just  now  and  so  did 
you!" 

"Then  shut  the  door!"  thundered  the  Captain,  but  it 
had  slammed  before  the  words  were  fairly  out.  And 
Carolan  stamped  across  the  landing  whistling  defiantly, 
and  burst  into  the  nursery,  where  Baba — for  the  moment 
its  sole  occupant — was  asleep  in  her  bassinette,  Alan  and 
Monica  having  gone  out  to  walk  with  Miss  Josey,  and 
Nurse  being  busy  in  the  adjoining  room. 

Carolan 's  head  was  hot,  and  his  heart  felt  big  and 
swollen.  He  was  a  person  of  consequence,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  thing  of  no  account.  Thus  the  pride  that 
flamed  in  his  gray  eyes  was  presently  quenched  by  scald- 
ing salt  drops  of  resentful  indignation.  He  was  sorrowful, 
elated,  angry,  and  complacent,  all  at  once,  as  he  stood  by 
Baba's  crib. 

He  had  never  until  now  suspected  Mrs.  Breagh  was  not 
his  mother.  He  had  called  her  "Mamma"  ever  since  he 
could  speak.  No  question  had  ever  risen  in  his  mind  as  to 
the  existence  of  some  secret  reason  for  her  dislike  of  him. 

When  she  had  seemed  most  hateful  in  his  eyes,  by  reason 
of  her  lacking  reticence  and  absent  sense  of  honor — for 


16  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

she  couldn't  keep  a  secret  if  she  promised  you  ever  so,  and 
was  always  telling  tales  of  you  to  Dada! — Carolan  had 
frequently  relieved  his  feelings  by  going  into  corners  and 
calling  her  "that  woman"  under  his  breath.  The  ap- 
palling sense  of  crime,  involved  with  the  relief  this  process 
brought — for  to  call  your  real  mother  names  would  be  a 
sin  of  the  first  magnitude — bad  invested  it  with  a  dreadful 
fascination.  Now  the  glamour  had  vanished,  together  with 
the  wickedness.  Mrs.  Breagh  was  nothing  to  Carolan.  He 
was  the  son  of  another  woman — and  she  was  dead  in  India. 
Her  name  was  Milly — a  gentle,  prettily  sounding  name. 

Only  the  day  before,  Carolan  had  found  out  what  the 
thing  grown-up  people  called  "death"  and  "dying" 
meant.  He  had  given  a  shiny  sixpence  that  had  lain 
hidden  for  weeks  at  the  bottom  of  the  pocket  in  his  old 
plaid  frock  to  Bugler  Finnerty  for  a  thrush  he  had  limed, 
a  beautiful  brown  thrush  with  a  splendidly  dappled  breast. 
Only  the  bird's  eyes  looked  like  beads  of  dull  jet  glass 
instead  of  round  black  blobs  of  diamond-bright  bramble- 
dew.  And  it  had  squatted  on  the  foul  floor  of  the  little 
wood  and  wire  cage  in  which  Finnerty  had  been  keeping  it, 
panting,  with  ruffled  feathers  and  open  beak. 

Finnerty  had  said  that  the  bird  would  thrive  on  snails 
and  worms,  and  Carolan  had  promised  it  plenty  of  these 
luxuries.  He  had  meant  to  range  for  them  through  all 
the  soldiers'  vegetable-allotments,  and  ransack  the  Parade- 
ground  flower-beds.  But  all  at  once  the  thrush  had  fallen 
over  on  its  side,  fluttering  and  struggling — and  Carolan 
had  been  so  sorry  for  it  that  he  had  thrust  his  pudgy  hand 
into  the  cage,  and  taken  the  poor  sufferer  out  with  the 
intention  of  nursing  it  in  his  pinafore  for  a  little,  and  then 
letting  it  go  free,  since  it  was  so  unhappy  in  captivity. 

But  when  he  had  bidden  it  fly  away  it  had  had  no 
strength  to  do  so.  It  had  lain  helpless  in  his  hands,  and 
the  strange  quivering  thrills  that  had  passed  through  its 
slender  body  had  communicated  themselves  to  the  child. 
Something  was  taking  place — some  change  was  coming. 
Without  previous  knowledge  he  had  been  sure  of  that. 

And  the  change  had  come,  with  the  drawing  of  the  thin 
gray  membrane  from  the  corners  next  the  beak,  over  the 
round  yellow-rimmed  eyes.  Then  the  upper  and  under- 
lids  had  sealed  themselves  over  the  veiled  eyeballs — the 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  17] 

quick  panting  had  changed  to  long  gasps,  the  head  had 
rolled  to  one  side  helplessly — and  with  a  long  shuddering 
convulsion  the  thing  had  taken  place.  The  slender  body 
had  stiffened  in  Carolan's  hand,  the  glossy  wings  had  closed 
down  tightly  against  its  dappled  sides,  its  scaly  legs  had 
stretched  out  rigidly  and  not  been  drawn  back  again.  And 
a  voice  that  seemed  to  speak  inside  Carolan  had  said  to 
him:  "This  is  death!" 

Now  broke  in  upon  his  immature  brain  a  flash  of  blind- 
ing brilliancy.  Milly,  who  had  been  his  mother,  was  dead, 
like  the  thrush.  He  shut  his  eyes,  and  saw  her  lying,  very 
pale  and  pretty  and  helpless,  with  ruffled  brown  hair  the 
exact  color  of  the  bird 's  feathers,  and  beautiful  brown  eyes 
— why  was  he  so  certain  that  they  had  been  brown  ? — all  dun 
and  filmy,  and  her  slender  body  and  long  graceful  limbs 
now  quivering  and  convulsed,  and  now  growing  rigid  and 
stiff.  And  a  lump  rose  in  his  throat,  and  a  tear  splashed 
on  the  front  of  the  brand-new  blue  jacket,  and  another  that 
would  have  fallen  was  dried  by  a  glow  of  inspiration.  For 
he  had  dug  a  grave  with  a  sherd  of  broken  flower-pot  in 
the  angle  of  one  of  the  official  flower-beds  that  decorated 
the  oblong  patch  of  lawn  before  the  Mess  House,  and  buried 
the  dead  thrush  in  the  shelter  of  a  clump  of  daffodils,  and 
said  a  ' '  Hail  Mary ! ' '  for  it,  because,  though  Miss  Josey  and 
Mrs.  Breagh — whom  he  would  never  call ' '  Mamma ' '  again ! 
— termed  it  a  Popish  practice, — Father  Haygarty  said  that 
one  ought  to  pray  for  the  dead.  .  .  . 

Surely  one  ought  to  pray  for  the  soul  of  Milly.  She 
would  understand,  it  was  to  be  hoped!  why  one  had 
never  done  it  before.  Somebody  would  tell  her  Carolan 
hadn't  known!  Poor,  poor  Milly!  He  wished  he  had 
been  there  with  his  new  tin  sword  when  that  snuffing 
Thing  came  out  of  the  jungle  and  frightened  her  so  that 
she  had  died.  .  .  . 

He  looked  about  the  nursery.  There  stood  Monica's 
Indian-cane  cot,  and  Alan's  green-painted  iron  crib  on 
either  side  of  Nurse's  wooden  four-poster.  At  the  bed- 
head above  Nurse's  pillow  was  nailed  a  little  plaster  Cal- 
vary, and  a  miniature  holy- water  stoup,  and  over  Carolan 's 
little  folding  camp-bedstead  hung  a  noble  crucifix  of  ebony 
and  carved  ivory,  so  large  and  so  massive  that  two  iron 
staples  held  it  in  its  place. 


18  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

The  Face  of  the  pendent,  tortured  Figure — there  was 
death  in  that  also.  It  seemed  to  the  child  that  the  breast 
beneath  the  drooped,  thorn-encircled  Head,  heaved  with 
long  sighs,  that  the  lips  gasped  for  breath — that  long 
shuddering  spasms  rippled  through  the  tortured  Body, 
bringing  home,  as  nothing  ever  had  before,  the  meaning  of 
the  lines  that  the  boy  had  learned  as  a  parrot  might.  .  .  . 

"He  was  crucified  also  for  us  .  .  .  suffered  .  .  .  and  was 
buried.  ..." 

And  that  was  why  we  prayed  to  Him  for  the  dead  and 
buried  people,  because  He  had  suffered  death  and  gone 
down  into  the  dark  grave,  and  He  knew  how  to  help  souls. 
.  .  .  Carolan  nailed  his  resolution  to  say  a  nightly  "Our 
Father"  for  poor  Milly  to  the  masthead  of  determination, 
unaware  that  Father  Haygarty  had  incurred  the  displeas- 
ure of  Mrs.  Breagh  by  urging  the  necessary  discharge  of 
this  filial  duty  as  a  reason  why  the  boy  should  be  told  about 
his  mother  who  was  dead. 

"We  may  guess  that  the  influence  of  the  second  wife  had 
inspired  the  Captain  to  insist  that  the  hour  of  enlighten- 
ment should  be  deferred  indefinitely.  And  if  any  one  had 
suggested  to  Mrs..  Breagh  that  she  had  been  prompted  by 
a  belated  jealousy  of  her  predecessor,  she  would  have  been 
genuinely  horrified  at  the  idea. 

Nurse  came  in  as  Carolan  decided  on  his  course  of  future 
loyalty,  and  started  at  the  sight  of  the  sturdy  little  figure 
standing,  with  legs  planted  wide  apart,  on  the  shabby 
nursery  drugget,  its  childish  brows  puckered  with  pro- 
found thought. 

"Now  may  the  Saints  stand  between  you  and  the  mis- 
chief I  know  you're  plannin' ! ' '  said  Nurse,  who  prided  her- 
self on  reading  thoughts  in  faces.  "  Is  ut  playin '  acreybats 
on  the  windy-sill,  or  shavin'  wid  the  Captain's  razor? 
Spake  ut  out ! ' ' 

Carolan  spoke. 

"Mamma  is  not  my  muwer,  an'  I  shall  call  her  Mrs. 
Breagh  always!" 

"God  be  good  to  me!"  said  Nurse,  quite  pale,  and 
putting  her  hand  to  her  side.  "An'  who  tould  ye  that, 
an '  set  the  two  eyes  of  ye  blazin '  like  coals  of  fire  ? ' ' 

"You  saided  it! — and  she  saided  it — and  Dada  saided 
it — when  I  was  playin'  robber's  cave  under  the  sittin'- 
woom  table,"  Carolan  proclaimed.  "And  I'm  goin'  to 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  19 

pray  for  Milly — that's  my  weal  muwer — because  she's 
dead — even  if  they  say  I  shan  't ! " 

''There'll  none  durst,"  said  Nurse  rather  awfully,  "wid 
Bridget  Povah  to  the  fore !  And  what  else  ? ' ' 

Slightly  damped  by  the  prospect  of  being  permitted  to 
carry  out  his  shining  new  intention  without  interruption, 
Carolan  reflected. 

"Nuffing,"  he  said  at  last,  "  'cept  that  I  want  to  know 
how  much  is  seven  fousand  golding  sovereigns?  For  I 
am  going  to  have  them  when  I  grow  up. ' ' 

"Sure!"  said  Nurse,  slightly  bewildered,  "a  sovereign 
is  the  same  as  a  wan-pound  note !  Ye  have  seen  thim  things, 
have  ye  not?" 

Carolan  had  seen  the  soiled  rags  of  Bank  paper  changing 
hands  on  market-days,  and  the  recollection  wrinkled  his 
nose. 

' '  'Tis  quare  talk  ye  have, ' '  said  Nurse,  ' '  about  the  sivin 
thousand  wan-pound  notes.  'Tis  a  little  haystack  av  them 
ye  would  be  gettin'  from  the  gintleman  at  the  Bank. 
Where  arr  ye  goin'  now,  ye  onaisy  wandherer?  Wid  your 
hoop  for  a  rowl  in  the  Barrack-square  ?  Take  your  cap — 
an '  remember  that  wheniver  ye  're  clane  out  av  sight,  Biddy 
Povah  has  her  eye  on  you ! ' ' 

But  Carolan  was  already  out  of  the  room  and  half-way 
down  the  stairs. 

Outside  under  the  blue  sky,  with  its  flocks  of  fleecy 
white  clouds  all  hurrying  southward,  it  was  easy  to  forget 
the  things  that  had  hurt.  The  crackle  of  the  sandy  gravel 
underfoot,  the  purr  of  the  iron  hoop  in  he  metal  driving- 
hook  soothed  and  stimulated ;  the  ringing  clatter  when  one 
got  upon  the  cobblestones,  and  the  echo  when  one  came 
under  the  archway  of  the  Barrack-gate — were  familiar, 
pleasant  things. 

Familiar,  too,  was  the  sentry  on  guard,  great-coated — • 
for  at  all  times  and  seasons  of  the  year  a  nipping  wind 
howled  through  the  stony  tunnel  that  ended  in  the  arch  of 
the  Barrack-gateway — and  pacing  his  official  strip  of  pave- 
ment, that  began  at  the  yellow-painted  sentry-box  with 
the  blunt  lamp-post  near  it,  and  ended  at  the  big  spiked 
gate.  And  the  peep  into  the  guardroom,  with  unbuttoned 
privates  in  the  familiar  red  coats  with  Royal  blue  facings 
sprawling  on  plank  beds  reading  thumbed  newspapers, 


20  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

and  the  sergeant  sitting  on  his  cot  stiffly  stocked  and  fully 
accoutered — that  had  the  charm  of  a  well-known,  never  too 
familiar  sight.  To  other  senses  besides  the  eyes  and  ears 
appealed  the  figure  of  Mary  Daa,  the  apple,  cake  and 
ginger-pop  woman,  sitting  under  a  vast  and  oddly-patched 
blue  gingham  umbrella  at  her  stall,  made  of  a  short  plank 
mounted  on  two  barrels,  against  the  great  bare  wall  on  the 
left  of  the  Barrack- entrance,  exercising  a  privilege  per- 
mitted to  no  other,  because  Mary 's  stone  ginger-pop  bottles 
might  be  relied  upon  as  containing  nothing  else.  .  .  . 

It  was  market-day,  and  the  great  cobblestoned  place, 
bordered  by  a  line  of  shops  and  houses,  broken  by  the 
bridge,  under  which  flowed  a  famous  salmon-river,  was 
seething  with  people  out  to  buy  and  sell  and  enjoy  them- 
selves. On  the  right  hand  was  the  Catholic  Church,  a 
modern  building  of  no  great  design,  animated  bundles  of 
rags  containing  female  penitents  performing  the  devotions 
of  the  Stations  round  it.  While  upreared  upon  the  summit 
of  an  isolated  rock  beyond  the  rushing  river,  perched  the 
ivy-mantled  remnant  of  the  ancient  castle  from  which  the 
town  derived  its  name;  once  held  against  the  Common- 
wealth by  King  James,  and  with  Ireton's  round-shot  yet 
bedded  in  the  massive  masonry. 

The  distracting  grind-organ  accompaniment  of  a  round- 
about blared  on  the  ear  from  a  field  where  some  caravans 
of  strolling  show-people  had  encamped  themselves.  Rows 
of  empty  jaunting-cars,  shafts  down,  waited  their  squir- 
een owners  in  the  bleakest  angle  of  the  market-place ;  and 
in  the  farm-carts  with  feather-beds  in  them,  covered  with 
gay  patchwork  counterpanes,  the  strapping  matrons  and 
buxom  maids  of  the  hill-farms  or  mountain-villages  had 
jolted  and  joggled  from  their  distant  homes,  and — 
the  last  bargain  made — would  jolt  and  joggle  back 
again. 

Booths  and  stalls,  presided  over  by  them,  exhibited  cheese, 
butter,  and  other  dairy-produce.  Crates  were  crammed 
with  quacking  ducks  and  loudly  cackling  fowls.  Strings 
of  shaggy-footed  horses  and  knots  of  isolated  cows  were 
ranged  along  the  curbs  to  tempt  the  would-be  purchaser; 
hurdled  pens  of  sheep  waited  to  change  owners;  but  the 
staple  article  of  commerce,  in  the  active  and  the  passive 
mood,  alive  and  squealing  or  dead  and  smoked,  was  pig. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  21 

In  reeking  basements  below  the  shops — cellars  where  po- 
tatoes, cabbages,  and  onions  were  peddled  to  the  poorest, 
and  turf  and  firewood  were  sold  in  ha'p'orths — piles  of 
pigs-tails,  fresh  and  dried,  rivaled  the  salted  herring  in 
popularity,  and  were  borne  home,  wrapped  in  red-spotted 
handkerchiefs,  and  stowed  away  in  the  crowns  of  hats,  to 
be  frizzled  over  turf-embers  for  supper. 

A  jig  was  being  danced  to  the  music  of  a  fiddle  and  a 
clarionet  on  a  square  of  smooth  flagstones  in  the  middle  of 
the  market-place.  And — for  this  was  the  West  of  Ireland 
in  the  early  fifties — the  bright  red  or  dark  blue  cloaks  and 
white  frilled  caps  of  the  matrons,  the  short  stuff  petticoats, 
chintz  jacket-bodices  and  bright  handkerchief -shawls  of 
the  unwedded  women;  the  corduroy  breeches,  blue  yarn 
stockings  and  buckled  brogues  of  the  men,  their  long-tailed 
gray  or  blue  coats  and  high-crowned,  narrow-brimmed 
chimney-pots — gave  charm  and  variety  to  the  shifting 
scene. 

Not  for  the  first  time  observed,  the  half-dozen  of  coarse, 
strapping,  red-faced  women  who  daily  patroled  the  square 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Barracks;  whisky-hardened 
viragoes  whose  uncovered  heads  of  greasy  hair,  thrust  into 
sagging  nets  of  black  chenille-velvet,  and  uniform  attire  of 
clean  starched  cotton  print,  worn  over  a  multiplicity  of 
whaleboned  petticoats,  bespoke  them, — as  did  their  coarse 
speech  and  loud  laughter, — members  of  the  ancient  sister- 
hood of  Kahab  and  Delilah,  followers  of  the  most  ancient 
profession  in  the  world. 

Prone  at  all  times  to  hunt  in  pack  or  couples,  the  wearers 
of  the  greasy  hair-nets  flauntingly  displayed  a  pair  of  cap- 
tive red-coats.  One  of  them  was  fairly  sober,  and  sulky 
at  being  thus  paraded  under  the  eyes  of  his  countrymen. 
The  other,  a  raw  young  recruit,  half- fuddled  with  libations 
of  porter  and  whisky,  staggeringly  promenaded  the  pave- 
ment with  a  siren  on  either  elbow;  and,  being  in  the  pug- 
nacious stage  of  liquor,  was  stung  by  some  sarcastic  com- 
ment from  the  crowd  into  shaking  off  the  women  who 
supported, — while  they  feigned  to  lean  on  him, — and  chal- 
lenging the  critic  of  morals,  in  broad  Yorkshire,  to  a  bout 
at  fisticuffs. 

' '  Leggo  o '  me,  tha ! "  he  hiccoughed  to  the  Paphians. 

"Cannowt  a  chap  walk  wi'out  women-fowk  hangin'  on,  an' 
armin'  him?     As  for  tha!" — he  addressed   the  critic — 


22  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Ah '11  teach  tha  to  meddle  wi'  thy  betters.  If  tha'rt  a 
mon — coom  on ! " 

"Fight,  is  ut?  Och,  ye  poor  craythur,  the  wind  av  a 
fist  wud  level  ye,"  commented  the  censor,  turning  on  his 
heel  contemptuously.  Upon  which,  the  belligerent,  taking 
the  act  as  a  confession  of  recreancy,  wrenched  himself  from 
the  women,  and,  staggering  forward,  came  into  violent 
contact  with  Mary  Daa's  plank-and-barrel  stall;  with  the 
result  that  certain  apples,  oranges,  and  cakes,  displayed 
to  tempt  customers,  were  scattered  on  the  flagged  side- 
walk, or  rolled  gaily  down  the  gutter;  pursued  with  yells 
of  joy  by  certain  ragged  urchins  who  usually  were  to  be 
found  in  the  vicinity  of  Mary's  stall. 

Carolan  clapped  his  hands  with  a  child 's  delight  in  the  up- 
set and  the  subsequent  fray,  as  Mary,  vociferating  maledic- 
tions on  the  soldier 's  drunken  clumsiness  and  the  predatory 
activity  of  the  raiders,  shook  her  fists  at  their  flying  heels. 

"Ah  nivir  meant  t'  dommage  tha!  Wull  sixpence  neet 
maak  guid  thy  loss  t'  tha?"  stammered  the  Yorkshireman, 
thrusting  a  hand  into  his  trousers-pocket  in  search  of  the 
coin.  Then  his  flaming  face  darkened  heavily,  and  he  said, 
withdrawing  the  hand,  empty,  ' '  Ah  havena  a  brass  f arden 
t'  pitch  at  dog  or  devil,  let  alone  sixpence.  Mak't  oop  to 
her,  Noorah  lass,  an'  Ah '11  gie't  thee  back  agean!" 

And  the  woman  he  had  called  Norah  said,  linking  her 
arm  in  the  soldier's  and  affectionately  ogling  him: 

' '  Sure,  I  '11  give  the  ould  craythur  a  shillin ',  asthore,  and 
a  kiss  av  the  handsome  boy  you  are  will  pay  me ! " 

Then  happened  what  Carolan,  with  a  child's  intuitive 
sense  of  things  that  are  incomprehensible,  saw  with  a 
strange  shock  and  thrill  that  never  quite  passed  away. 

The  bright  new  shilling  tendered  to  Mary  by  the  plump 
clean  fingers  with  the  twinkling  glass-and-pinchbeck  rings 
on  them  was  dashed  to  the  flags  by  a  fierce  blow  of  the  old, 
bony,  wrinkled  hand.  .  .  . 

"Take  up  yer  money,  ye  livin'  disgrace ! "  Mary  had  said 
sternly  to  the  staring  woman,  "and  thrapse  upon  your 
way!" 

And  under  the  regard  of  many  eyes,  for  nearly  all  the 
faces  in  the  crowded  market-place  seemed  to  be  looking 
that  way,  the  woman  had  picked  up  the  coin;  and  as  her 
comrades  hurried  on,  had  slunk  after  them,  leaving  the 
tipsy  soldier  standing  there. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  23 

"Had  ye  no  modher,  ye  fool-man?"  Mary  asked  him, 
"that  ye  are  hastin'  quick  to  hell,  arrum-in-arrum  wid 
Thim  Wans?" 

And  the  tipsy  young  soldier  had  given  a  thick  grunt  that 
might  have  meant  anything,  and  hung  his  head  sulkily, 
and  gone  staggering  upon  his  way,  but  in  an  opposite  direc- 
tion to  that  taken  by  the  women.  And  Mary  Daa  looked 
after  him  long  and  sorrowfully. 

"Please  tell  me,"  asked  Carolan,  edging  up  to  the  apple- 
woman,  for  Mary  and  he  had  struck  up  a  friendship  over 
divers  ha  'p  'orths  of  nuts  and  pink  peppermint-candy  sticks, 
' '  what  are  they,  and  why  are  they  wicked  ? ' ' 

Mary  brought  round  the  weather-stained  brown  tunnel 
of  her  huge  and  venerable  bonnet,  and  became  aware  of 
a  small  boy  with  a  scarlet  topknot  and  a  pair  of  honest 
gray  eyes. 

' '  Who  arr  ye  talkin '  of  ? "  she  demanded,  and  there  were 
shining  drops  of  water  on  her  wrinkled  cheeks,  and  the 
cracked  glasses  of  her  huge  iron-framed  spectacles  were 
foggy.  She  took  them  off,  and  wiped  them  on  her  old  green 
plaid  shawl,  as  Carolan  explained  that  he  had  been  refer- 
ring to  Thim  Wans. 

'  *  What  arr  they  ?  Wandherin '  waves  av  the  say,  poison- 
ous planets;  thraps  for  the  feet,  fiery  dhragons  that  ate 
up  the  bodies  an '  souls  av  men !  Look  me  in  the  face  wid 
your  child's  eyes,  ye  that  will  be  a  man  wan  day,  an'  get 
by  harrut  the  worruds  I'm  spakin'  to  you?  An'  when  the 
pith  is  set  widin  your  bones,  and  the  hair  is  thick  upon 
your  lip,  and  the  blood  is  hot  widin  the  veins  av  you — 
kape  them  worruds  in  mind ! ' ' 

Carolan  thanked  Mary  Daa,  and,  having  a  stray  half- 
penny, purchased  a  cocked-hat  of  brown  peppermint  rock, 
and  went  home  crunching.  He  had  learned  a  good  deal 
that  day.  The  mystery  of  Death  and  the  power  of  Money 
had  been  revealed  to  him.  Also,  he  had  gained  some  slight 
preliminary  inkling  of  the  forces  that  are  arrayed  against 
the  human  soul  in  its  march  through  this  strange  world  of 
ours,  and  of  the  strange  and  foul  and  ugly  things  that  lie 
hidden  beneath  the  shining  surface  of  Life. 


24  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 


IV 

FURNTVAL'S  INN,  Holborn,  with  its  parallelogram  of  dusty 
or  rain-washed  cobblestones  unrelieved  by  any  patch  of 
railed-in  grass  plot,  where  sooty  lilacs  and  rusty  hawthorns 
make  a  show  of  putting  forth  green  leaves  in  Spring,  and 
plane-trees  shed  their  bark,  as  boa-constrictors  doff  their 
skins,  at  the  approach  of  Winter — Furnival's  Inn,  even  in 
the  year  of  stress  of  1870,  impressed  itself  upon  the  casual 
visitor  as  a  dismal  spot  in  wet  weather  and  a  dusty  one  in 
dry.  But  that  an  immortal  genius  wrote  a  deathless  work 
of  humor  in  its  cheerless  precincts,  one  would  have  said 
that  nothing  young  or  gay  or  natural  could  ever  flourish 
there. 

At  nine  o'clock  upon  the  morning  of  a  day  heavily 
fraught  with  Fate  for  the  protagonist  of  this  unpretending 
life-drama,  recent  puddles  testified  to  overnight's  rain,  and 
gray  clouds  rushing  north-westward  across  a  monochro- 
matic parallelogram  of  sky,  framed  in  by  the  bilious-hued, 
grimy-windowed,  decrepit-looking  Inn  buildings,  predicted 
more  presently. 

Punctually  upon  the  stroke  of  the  hour  you  might  have 
seen  a  shaggy  young  man  in  a  red-hot  hurry  plunge  under 
the  round-topped  carriage  archway,  eschewing  the  smaller 
side-entrance  intended  for  pedestrians.  Whereat  the  upper 
half  of  a  porter,  crowned  with  a  tarred  chimney-pot  hat, 
and  wearing  a  brown  livery  with  copper-gilt  buttons,  ap- 
peared at  the  wicket  of  his  lodge-door,  and  the  fresh-faced, 
shaggy -haired  boy  in  the  battered  felt  wideawake  and  well- 
worn  frieze  overcoat,  had  felt  an  eye  boring  hard  into  his 
back,  as,  after  one  doubtful  glance  about  him,  he  dived 
between  the  gouty  Corinthian  columns  of  the  fourth  por- 
tico on  the  left-hand  side,  and  rang  the  first-floor  bell. 

"I'd  ring  if  I  was  you!"  the  porter  had  soliloquized, 
noting  the  masterful  tug  given  by  the  early  visitor  to  the 
dingy  brass  bell-handle — third  of  a  row  of  six  sticking  out 
like  organ-stops  on  the  right  of  the  heavy,  low-browed 
outer  door.  "And  again!  .  .  .  Don't  be  shy!"  said  the 
porter,  who  was  something  of  a  cynic:  "Break  the  bell- 
wire,  and  then  you  won 't  have  done  no  good  to  yourself ! — 
supposing  you  to  be  a  client  or  a  creditor  of  Mustey  and 
Son — though  you're  over-young  to  be  the  first  and  over- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  25 

cheerful  to  be  the  second,  it  strikes  me!  Good-day,  Mr. 
Chown ! ' '  And  the  porter  touched  his  hat  to  a  lean,  mild- 
looking,  elderly  man  in  black,  who  turned  in  at  that  mo- 
ment beneath  the  smaller  archway.  "You're  not  the  first 
this  morning,  early  as  you  are.  There's  a  young  chap  who 
don 't  seem  in  the  mind  to  take  no  answer — has  been  ringing 
ten  minutes  without  stopping  at  Mr.  Mustey's  bell." 

"Pressing  business,  I  suppose,  to  bring  him  out  so 
early ! ' '  said  the  person  addressed. 

A  glance  of  intelligence  may  have  been  exchanged  be- 
tween Mr.  Chown  and  the  porter,  but  there  were  no  further 
words.  Mr.  Chown  passed  on,  and  joined  the  younger  man 
on  the  doorstep  under  the  fourth  portico  on  the  left 
side,  as  he  prepared  to  fulfill  the  porter's  prophecy 
about  breaking  the  bell-wire;  and  said,  shifting  his  um- 
brella to  the  hand  that  held  a  shiny  bag  of  legal  appear- 
ance, and  drawing  a  shabby  latchkey  from  the  pocket  of 
his  vest: 

"Excuse  me,  but  if  it  is  a  business  appointment  with 
Mr.  Mustey  Junior, ' ' — he  tapped  the  key  upon  the  tarnished 
brass  door-handle  as  though  to  knock  some  grains  of  dust 
out  of  the  words,  and  went  on,  punctuating  his  utterances 
with  more  tapping — "I  happen  to  know" — tap-tap-tap — 
"that  he  won't  be  here  to-day."  He  added,  as  he  took  a 
brief,  comprehensive  survey  of  the  healthy,  square- 
shouldered,  well-built  youngster  of  some  five  feet  eight 
(with  a  hopeful  promise  of  more  inches  in  the  breadth  of 
the  shoulders,  and  the  depth  of  the  chest),  buttoned  up  in 
the  rough  frieze  garment  that  had  seen  hard  wear.  "But 
possibly  it  is  the  head  of  the  Firm"  (tap-tap}  "you  want, 
and  not  Son?  ...  In  which  case  I'm  afraid  you'll  have 
to  wait  some  time,  as  the  old  gentleman  stayed  very  late 
at  work  yesterday.  I  should  mention  that  I  am  employed 
in  the  capacity  of  head-clerk  by"  (tap]  "a  firm  of  solicitors 
who  have  offices  on  the  ground-floor  immediately  under- 
neath Mustey  and  Son"  (tap],  "and " 

Mr.  Chown,  still  industriously  tapping,  nodded  at  the 
lowest  of  a  series  of  legends  in  letters  of  black  paint,  flank- 
ing the  right-hand  row  of  bells,  and  setting  forth  the  titles 
of  "Wotherspoon  and  Cadderby,  Attorneys  and  Commis- 
sioners of  Oaths. ' '  He  continued :  ' '  And  though  I  was 
detained  myself,  and  did  not  leave  till  eight-thirty,  I 
noticed  particularly — when  I  shut  the  front-door  behind 


26  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

me,  that  the  gas  in  Mr.  Mustey  Senior's  private  room  was 
burning  still." 

"For  the  matter  of  that,  it's  burning  now!"  said  the 
strange  young  man,  whose  head  was  plentifully  covered 
with  a  crop  of  decidedly  red  and  obstinately  curly  hair, 
crowned  with  the  battered  gray  felt  wideawake  previously 
mentioned ;  and  whose  square,  blunt-featured,  fresh-colored, 
rather  freckled  face  was  illuminated  with  a  pair  of  very 
clear  and  intelligent  eyes  of  a  good  gray,  curiously  flecked 
with  yellow.  He  indicated  with  a  knotty  vine-stick  he 
carried  two  dingy,  wire-blinded  windows  on  the  first  floor, 
and  Messrs.  Wotherspoon  and  Cadderby's  head-clerk,  with 
an  irrepressible  start  of  consternation,  saw  that  the  dark- 
ness of  the  room  behind  them  was  thrown  into  relief  by  a 
greenish  patch  of  radiance  that  indicated  the  position  of 
a  paper-shaded  gas  reading-lamp  which  to  his  knowledge 
hung  over  the  heavy  writing-table  that  occupied  the  middle 
of  the  elder  Mustey 's  private  room. 

' '  God  bless  my  soul,  so  it  is ! " 

The  speaker,  with  a  tallowy  change  in  his  complexion, 
stepped  backward  from  the  doorstep  to  the  pavement, 
conveyed  himself  in  the  same  crab-like  fashion  to  the 
center  of  the  quadrangle  of  ancient  buildings  constituting 
the  Inn,  and  so  stood,  staring  up  at  the  window  with  the 
yellow-green  flare  behind  the  dusty  brown  wire-blinds, 
and  tapping  his  latchkey  on  his  chin  as  he  had  tapped  it 
on  the  door-knob.  Then  he  rejoined  the  other  to  say,  with 
rather  a  perturbed  and  dubious  air: 

' '  If  your  business  could  wait  half  an  hour  or  so,  and  you 
— being  a  stranger,  as  I  take  it  ? — and  new  to  the  sights  of 
London — were  to  indulge  in  a  little  walk  along  Holborn — 
say  as  far  as  Bloomsbury  Street — and  drop  in  at  the 
British  Museum,  and  have  a  look  at  the  Elgin  Marbles  or 
the  Assyrian  Bulls, — or  the — the  Mummies  in  the  Egyptian 
Department, — and  then  come  back  again, — you  might  stand 
a  better  chance  of  getting  the  bell  answered. ' '  The  speaker 
added,  meeting  a  look  of  decided  obstinacy,  quite  in  keep- 
ing with  the  pouting,  deeply-cut  lips  and  the  square  chin 
with  a  cleft  in  it:  "Unless  you  can  suggest  a  better  idea, 
you  know.  ..." 

"My  idea  is  to  stop  here  and  ring  until  the  bell  ts 
answered.  But  I  am  obliged  to  you  all  the  same!"  said 
the  young  man. 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  27 

"You've  waited  long  enough,  you  think?"  hesitated 
Messrs.  Wotherspoon  and  Cadderby's  head-clerk. 

The  answer  came  with  a  flash  of  strong  white  teeth  in  the 
fresh-colored  countenance  that  was  dusted  with  dark  brown 
freckles. 

"Just  twenty-three  years,"  said  the  shaggy-haired  young 
man. 

"Lord  bless  me!"  said  Mr.  Chown,  "you  must  have 
begun  waiting  in  your  cradle !  But  time  flies  and  business 
presses,  and " 

"My  view  exactly!"  returned  the  freckled  young  man, 
as  the  head-clerk  inserted  his  latchkey  into  the  heavy  door 
and  it  swung  slowly  backward,  revealing  a  bare  and 
gloomy  hall  wainscoted  with  grimy  oak  and  hung  with  mil- 
dewed flock-paper.  "Donner wetter!  how  you  smell  here!" 
he  commented,  having  taken  in  a  chestful  of  the  medium 
that  served  the  inhabitants  of  the  Inn  buildings  for  air. 
"But  I  suppose  you're  used  to  it!" 

"Comparing  our  atmosphere  with  that  of  other  London 
offices,  I  should  be  inclined  to  call  us  rather  fresh  than 
otherwise, ' '  said  Mr.  Chown,  who  had  dropped  his  latchkey 
and  was  groping  for  it  on  the  dirty  floor  by  the  oblong  of 
daylight  admitted  by  the  open  hall-door.  "But  I  suppose 
— as  some  of  the  gentlemen  who  rent  chambers  here  are 
still  away  on  their  vacations — the  place  might  seem — to  a 
stranger  from  the  country — a  trifle  close." 

"Stuffy!"  corrected  the  young  man,  whose  expression 
of  disgust  was  highly  uncomplimentary.  "Drainy,  black- 
beetly,  mousey,  dusty,  cellary.  With  a  tinge  of  escaped 

gas  and  a  something  else  that  I "  He  sniffed  and  said, 

puckering  a  sagacious  nose :  ' '  Why,  it 's  gunpowder !  The 
place  is  chock-full  of  the  fumes  of  burnt  gunpowder.  .  .  . 
Here!  Hallo!  What  the  devil  are  you  trying  to  do? 
What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

For  the  other,  who  had  risen  to  his  feet  with  a  reversion 
to  the  sallow  change  of  countenance  previously  observed 
in  him,  had  caught  him  by  the  arm,  as  his  eager  foot  had 
touched  a  dilapidated  mat  that  lay  as  a  snare  for  the  un- 
wary at  the  foot  of  the  uncarpeted  staircase,  and  with  un- 
expected strength  and  quickness  had  swung  him  to  the 
hall-door,  and  was  endeavoring  to  push  him  over  the 
threshold. 

"I  mean "    Mr.  Chown  was  of  middle  age  and  evi- 


28  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

dently  quite  unused  to  wrestling:  and  as  he  strove  with 
the  shaggy  young  man  upon  the  threshold  of  the  dingy 
hall,  it  was  evident  that  he  would  very  soon  give  in.  "I 
mean  .  .  ."he  panted,  "...  that  you  .  .  .  can't  you  be 
sensible  ? ' ' 

' '  I  should  be  a  fool  if  I  couldn  't  see  that  you  're  hiding 
something.  Let  go!"  said  the  red-haired  young  man,  not 
at  all  malevolently,  "or  I  shall  have  to  hurt  you!  I'm 
going  upstairs,  and  you  can't  stop  me!  What  harm  do 
you  think  I  am  going  to  do  to  the  white-haired  old  man 
who's  lying  fast  asleep  across  his  table?  I  shan't  go  in 
without  knocking,  if  that 's  what  you  're  thinking  of !  And 
what  harm  do  you  suppose  he 's  going  to  do  to  me  ? ' ' 

A  sullen  bang  answered,  for  Mr.  Chown  had  reached  out 
a  wary  hand  behind  his  own  respectable  back,  and  grabbed 
at  the  dim  brass  knob  and  slammed  the  heavy  door  upon 
himself  and  his  antagonist.  There  were  circles  round  his 
eyes,  and  he  puffed  and  panted  heavily. 

"You  young — puff — idiot!"  he  gasped,  "I'm  not — 
whoof! — considering  you — for — a — whuff! — moment.  It's 
him," — he  pulled  out  a  colored  handkerchief  and  mopped 
his  face — "him  that  I've  known  since  I  was  first  articled, 
and  had  many  a  kindly  word  from,  and  many  a  liberal 
present.  And  now  that  this  has  happened — I  may  say 
I've  seen  it  coming,  and  many  a  night  I've  stayed  here — 
knowing  him  busy  over  his  accounts  above,  and  many  a 
time  I've  been  on  the  point  of  going  up  and  knocking  and 
offering  a  word  of  sympathy.  But — it  wasn  't  to  be  done ! 
.  .  .  You  could  never  take  a  liberty  with  him,  alive — and 
no  one  shall  if  I  can  stop  'em — now  that  he  isn't!" 

"Now  that  he — why,  man ! — you  don't  mean  to  say 

They  confronted  each  other  on  the  doorstep,  and  the 
shaggy,  obstinate  young  man  had  now  flushed  to  ripe 
tomato-color  as  he  stammered: 

' '  You  don 't  mean  he 's  dead  ?    It  isn  't  possible ! ' ' 

"I  say  nothing  and  I  mean  nothing.  There's  no  third 
party  present,"  asserted  Mr.  Chown,  with  professional 
caution,  "to  testify  to  what  I  said  or  didn't  say.  But  his 
son  has  to  be  looked  for,  and  brought  here  if  they  can  find 
him — and  if  Mr.  William  can't  be  found — and  without 
prejudice  I  think  that's  more  than  likely! — some  one  he 
knew  and  trusted  must  be  the  first  to  go  into  that  room. 
His  housekeeper  I  've  heard  is  a  good  creature.  He 's  often 


THE    MAN   OF,   IRON  29 

dropped  a  word  in  praise  of  her  to  me,  I  know.  .  .  .  We  11 
telegraph — I  know  his  address!  Number  Three " 

The  young  man  interrupted :  ' '  Addington  Square,  Cam- 
berwell. ' ' 

"Send  her  a  wire!  I'll  pay!"  Mr.  Chown  plucked  a 
shilling  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  agitatedly  pressed 
it  on  the  stranger.  "There's  a  telegraph  office  at  Sno\r 
Hill!" 

"Where  is  Snow  Hill?  I'm  a  stranger  in  London.  As 
it  happens,  I  came  from  Schwarz-Brettingen — it's  a  Uni- 
versity town  in  North  Germany — to  keep  a  business  ap- 
pointment with  Messrs.  Mustey  and  Son."  The  shaggy- 
haired  young  man  pointed  to  those  first-floor  windows.  .  .  . 
adding:  "The  elder  gentleman  is  chief  trustee  of  my 
mother's  fortune — his  son,  who  you  say's  missing,  is  the 
other — that  is,  he  has  been  since  the  death  of  a  great-uncle 
of  mine.  .  .  .  For  I  didn't  come  of  age,  according  to  my 
mother's  settlement,  until  my  twenty-third  birthday.  And 
as  it  happens,  I  'm  twenty-three  to-day ! ' ' 

"I  see!  *He  was  to  have  paid  the  money  over!  .  .  . 
Good  Lord!  Good  Lord!"  groaned  the  head-clerk,  "what 
a  world  it  is ! — what  a  world  it  is ! " 

"And  all  this  while  we're  swopping  talk,  the  old  fellow 
upstairs  may  be  dying  for  help  that  we  could  give  him!" 
snarled  the  younger  man,  and  caught  the  head-clerk  by  the 
shoulder  in  a  grip  that  struck  him  as  unpleasantly  power- 
ful. ' '  Look  here ! — where  is  your  key  ? ' ' 

' '  Just  inside  in  the  hall  there.  .  .  .  I  'd  dropped  it,  don 't 
you  remember — I  was  looking  for  it  when  you — when  you 
— said  you  smelt  gunpowder,"  explained  the  attorney's 
clerk,  "and  then  it  all  rushed  on  me." 

"You  did  on  me! — and  I  thought  you'd  gone  crazy. 
Look  here "  the  other  began. 

"To  be  at  all  effective  I  had  to  take  you  suddenly," 
said  Mr.  Chown,  adding,  with  a  mild  gleam  of  pride,  ' '  and 
you  must  add — I  was  effective !  And  if  you  've  got  it  into 
your  head  that  there 's  life  in  the  poor  old  man  yet — put  it 
out  again!  For  he  shot  himself  last  night  just  on  the 
stroke  of  nine — and  I  could  take  my  oath  of  it!  I  heard 
what  must  have  been  the — the  noise — as  I  passed  out  at 
the  gate,  and  the  porter  he  said  to  me :  'A  gas  explosion 
somewhere  in  the  neighborhood,  Mr.  Chown,  or  else  it  was 
a  thunderclap.'  And  I  thought  it  might  have  been  thun- 


30  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

der — for  the  weather  observations  in  the  newspapers  had 
mentioned  storms  as  prevailing  in  South  and  South-Eastern 
England — and  the  winds  have  been  blowing  from  south  and 
south-east.  And  my  wife  has  headaches  when  electricity's 
in  the  atmosphere — and  she  has  been  bad  three  days  past. ' ' 

"But  let's  do  something — not  stand  here  with  our  hands 
in  our  pockets!"  urged  the  red-haired  young  man  with 
eagerness.  "I'm  a  surgeon — not  diplomaed,  worse  luck! 
but  enough  of  a  one  to  give  aid  in  such  a  case  as  you've 
hinted  at." 

"My  key's  inside  the  house — as  I've  told  you!"  retorted 
Mr.  Chown,  "and  unless  we  were  to  break  down  the  door — 
which  would  bring  the  police  upon  us  before  they  're  wanted 
— or  one  of  us  could  climb  like  a  cat — so  as  to  look  in  at 
that  window  and  make  certain " 

"Donnerwetterl  Good  idea!"  said  the  shaggy  young 
man,  in  whose  conversation  mingled  interjectional  scraps 
and  snatches  of  a  language  not  comprehended  by  Mr. 
Chown,  but  dimly  conjectured  to  be  German.  In  the  same 
instant  he  had  pulled  off  his  frieze  overcoat,  revealing  the 
unsuspected  fact  that  he  wore  no  jacket  under  it — had 
thrown  it  upon  the  area-railings  close  to  the  row  of  bells 
that  resembled  organ-stops,  and  mounted  upon  it,  shirt- 
sleeved,  vigorous,  ready  and  purposeful.  An  iron  torch- 
extinguisher,  a  rusted  relic  of  the  days  when  respectable 
citizens  went  forth  o'  nights  attended  by  linkmen,  jutted 
from  the  wall  immediately  above  his  head.  He  made  a 
long  arm  and  grasped  it — and  to  the  dazzled  observation  of 
the  head-clerk  appeared  to  walk  up  the  wall  like  a  house- 
fly. But  in  reality  he  had  wedged  a  toe  in  an  ornamental 
border  of  sooty  masonry  of  the  brick-in-and-brick-out  de- 
scription, that  outlined  the  doors  and  windows  of  the  Inn 
buildings;  and  with  a  degree  of  skill  and  suppleness  that 
testified  to  no  small  degree  of  practice,  hoisted  himself  up. 
Directly  afterward  he  was  observed  to  be  in  the  act  of 
getting  over  the  sooty  balustrading  that  edged  a  narrow 
ledge  of  stone  running  before  those  first-floor  windows, 
and  the  head-clerk,  holding  his  breath,  saw  him  stoop  and 
peer  in  over  a  wire  blind. 

Directly  afterward,  as  it  seemed,  he  withdrew  his  head 
and  looked  down  into  Mr.  Chown 's  pale  face,  and  his  own 
had  lost  its  ruddy  color.  Then,  coming  down  as  he  had 
gone  up,  much  to  the  astonishment  and  curiosity  of  Mr. 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  31 

Chown 's  two  juniors  and  several  legal-looking  personages 
who  had  arrived  upon  the  scene  and  gathered  in  quite  a 
little  crowd  upon  the  cobblestones — he  said  in  a  low  tone, 
as  he  drew  the  former  gentleman  apart : 

"You  were  right.  Whether  it  was  done  last  night  or 
more  recently,  it  has  been  done,  and  thoroughly.  With  a 
new-looking  revolver.  He  has  it  in  his  hand!" 

"Poor  old  gentleman,  I  could  swear  that  what  he  did 
he  has  been  driven  to  do,  through  despair  and  debt  and 
misery.  .  .  .  'Mr.  William  will  be  my  ruin,  Chown!'  he 
said  to  me  only  three  days  ago.  And  he  has  been  his  ruin, 
sir!"  said  Mr.  Chown,  blowing  his  nose  with  a  flourish, 
and  wiping  his  eyes  furtively.  ' '  His  ruin,  Mr.  William  has 
been.  .  .  .  You  may  depend  upon  that!" 

Said  the  young  man  from  North  Germany,  pulling  on  his 
shabby  overcoat: 

"The  table  is  covered  with  papers,  and  the  safe  facing 
the  window  is  open.  .  .  .  Do  you  think " 

"I  don't  think — I  know!  He  had  a  kind  of  swooning 
fit  a  week  back,  when  the  crash  came,  and  a  Receiving 
Order  in  Bankruptcy  was  made  against  him  on  the  petition 
of  his  creditors.  He  was  a  long  time  coming  round — and 
I  stayed  by  him  while  the  caretaker  went  to  fetch  a  hack- 
ney-cab— for  I'd  been  called,  being  a  sort  of  favorite  with 
him,  and  having  known  him  for  years.  He'd  been  robbed 
and  plundered  then,  because  he  groaned  it  out  to  me ;  and 
he  pointed  to  that  safe,  and  told  me  that  it  had  been  gutted 
by  means  of  false  keys — the  Bramah  he  always  wore  on  his 
watch-riband  having  been  got  at  and  copied.  'All  the 
cash  I  had  left  in  the  world,  Chown,  besides  seven  thousand 
in  Trust  Securities!  .  .  .  It's  my  punishment  for  having 
been  near  and  hard  to  others  that  I  might  be  generous  to 
him!'  Are  you  going?" 

The  shaggy  young  man,  crimson  to  the  lining-edge  of  the 
old  gray  wideawake  he  had  pulled  over  his  brows  after 
buttoning  his  overcoat,  made  an  incoherent  sound  in  his 
throat,  and  swung  abruptly  round  upon  his  heel.  The 
reflection  had  occurred  to  him :  ' '  He  'd  have  been  generous 
to  me  if  he'd  waited  to  have  seen  me — and  blown  out  my 
brains  before  scattering  his  own;  pfui! — over  that  table 
and  all  the  papers ! ' '  But  he  did  not  voice  it  aloud. 

"Leave  me  your  address,"  said  the  kindly-hearted  Mr. 
.Chown,  ' '  and — it 's  not  business  to  say  you  may  trust  me ! 


32  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

— but  I  '11  undertake  to  bring  your  name  before  the  Official 
Receiver — for  you're  one  of  the  principal  creditors — pro- 
vided what  you've  told  me  can  be  proved.  ..." 

"I  suppose  you  know  that — dead  man's  writing  when 
you  see  it  ? "  said  the  other,  swinging  round  on  Mr.  Chown 
with  no  very  pleasant  look. 

"As  well  as  I  know  my  own!"  retorted  Mr.  Chown, 
nodding  back. 

"If  so — and  not  because  I  admit  you've  any  right! — 
but  because  I  choose  to  show  it  you — you  may  read  this ! ' ' 
went  on  the  late  Mr.  Mustey's  chief  creditor,  pulling  a 
rather  worn  and  crumpled  oblong  envelope  out  of  his 
pocket  and  exhibiting  the  direction  written  on  it  in  a 
flowing,  old-fashioned,  legal  hand. 

"  'P.  C.  Breagh,  Esq.,  care  of  Frau  Busch,  Jaeger 
Strasse,  Schwarz-Brettingen,  N.  Germany.'  .  .  .  But  I 
really  shouldn't  have  dreamed "  began  Mr.  Chown. 

' '  Read  it ! "  said  the  owner  of  the  letter,  savagely  thrust- 
ing it  upon  him,  and  the  head-clerk  with  another  protest, 
nipped  in  mid-utterance  by  another  order  to  read  it, 
mastered  the  contents. 

The  writer  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  Mr.  P.  C. 
Breagh 's  letter,  and  begged  to  remind  him  that  he  was 
quite  well  acquainted  with  the  terms  of  his  late  mother's 
Marriage  Settlement.  He  congratulated"  his  young  friend 
on  having  so  nearly  attained  the  age  of  discretion  decided 
under  the  provisions  of  the  instrument  referred  to;  and 
appointed  the  hour  of  nine  o  'clock  upon  the  morning  of  the 
3d  of  January,  to  discharge  his  trust  and  hand  over  the 
cash,  deposit-notes,  and  securities.  .  .  . 

"While  all  the  time  he  knew — none  better,  except  his 
precious  partner ! — that  I  should  leave  his  office  as  poor  as 
I'd  come  there.  It  would  have  been  decent,"  snarled 
Patrick  Carolan  Breagh,  "to  have  owned  the  truth." 

"And  accused  his  own  son! — And  now  I  look  at  the 
date  of  this  it  was  written  on  the  day  before  that  affair  of 
the  false  Bramah.  .  .  .  Do  him  justice,  Mr.  Breagh!  .  .  . 
Try  to  think  he  meant  fair  by  you.  Wherever  he's  gone 
..."  Mr.  Chown  looked  vaguely  up  at  the  monochromatic 
sky — now  darkening  as  though  it  meant  to  rain  in  earnest 
— and  then  down  at  the  cobblestones,  "he'll  be  no  worse  for 
that,  and  you'll  be  the  better  here,  I  dare  to  say!  You'll 
give  me  your  address,  sir?  I  don't  know  but  that  as  you 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  33 

•were  the  first  to  discover  the  body,  you'll  be  expected  to 
gire  evidence  before  the  Coroner." 

"Damn  the  Coroner!"  said  P.  C.  Breagh.  "Whether 
he  wants  it  or  not  I  haven't  an  address  to  give.  I  paid  my 
bill  at  a  thundering  beastly  cheap  hotel  in  the  Euston  Road 
by  handing  over  my  trunks  of  clothes,  and  books  and  in- 
struments to  the  landlord.  .  .  .  He  promised  to  keep  them 
for  three  weeks — to  give  me  a  chance  to  redeem  them! — 
and  he  grunted  when  I  said  I  'd  be  back  with  money  enough 
to  buy  his  bug-ridden  lodging-house  before  two  days  were 
over  his  head.  And  I  pawned  my  coat  for  dinner  yester- 
day and  a  coffee-house  bed  last  night.  .  .  .  That's  why  you 
saw  shirt-sleeves  when  I  pulled  off  this  old  wrap-rascal. 
.  .  .  But  I'll  look  in  here  again  to-morrow — unless  I — 
change  my  mind ! ' ' 

He  had  passed  under  the  archway  and  was  gone  before 
Mr.  Chown  had  recovered  himself  sufficiently  to  call  after 
him.  To  follow  would  have  been  no  use.  So  the  head-clerk 
went  sorrowfully  back  to  write  and  dispatch  those  urgent 
telegraphic  messages. 

And  Carolan,  shouldering  through  the  double  torrent  of 
pedestrian  humanity  rolling  east  and  west  along  the  worn 
pavements  of  Holborn,  plunged  through  the  roaring  traffic 
of  the  cobblestoned  roadway,  and  with  his  chin  well  down 
upon  his  chest,  and  his  hands  rammed  deep  into  his  pockets, 
turned  down  Fetter  Lane,  knowing  that  he,  who  had  been 
heir  to  a  goodly  sum  in  thousands,  was,  by  this  sudden 
turn  of  Fortune's  wheel,  a  beggar. 


As  a  dog  will  skulk  dejectedly  from  the  spot  where  a  bone 
previously  buried  has  failed  to  reward  the  snuffing  nose 
and  the  digging  paw,  so  P.  C.  Breagh,  on  the  long-expected 
twenty -third  birthday  that  was  to  have  made  him  master 
of  dead  Milly's' fortune,  slouched  down  Fetter  Lane,  hum- 
ming and  vibrant  with  the  vicinity  of  great  printing-works, 
and  redolent  of  glue  and  treacle,  tar,  printers'  ink,  engine- 
oil,  and  size. 

A  double  stream  of  carts  and  trucks,  heavily  laden  with 
fire-mile  rollers  of  yellow-white  paper  for  the  revolving 


34  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

vertical  type-cylinders  of  the  Applegarth  steam  printing- 
machine — then  in  its  heyday — bales  of  tow,  forms  of  type 
and  piles  of  wood-blocks,  choked  the  narrow  thoroughfare. 
The  smells  from  the  cheaper  eating-houses — where  sausages 
frizzled  in  metal  trays,  and  tea  and  coffee  steamed  in  huge 
tapped  boilers,  and  piles  of  doubtful-looking  eggs,  and 
curly  rashers  of  streaky  bacon  were  to  be  had  by  people 
with  money  to  pay  for  breakfast — even  the  sight  of  com- 
positors in  clean  shirt-sleeves  and  machine-men  steeped  in 
ink  and  oil  to  the  eyebrows  eating  snacks  of  bread  and 
cheese  and  saveloy,  and  drinking  porter  out  of  pewter  on 
the  doorsteps  of  great  buildings  roaring  with  machinery — 
sickened  P.  C.  Breagh  with  vain  desire. 

His  world  was  all  in  ruins  about  him.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  painful  sense  of  stricture  in  the  throat,  and  a  tight 
pain  as  though  a  knotted  rope  were  bound  about  his 
temples.  His  hand  did  not  shake,  though,  when  he  thrust 
it  out  under  his  eyes  and  looked  at  it  curiously.  I>ut  he 
shouldered  his  way  so  clumsily  along  the  narrow,  crowded 
sidewalk  that  he  found  himself  every  now  and  then  in  col- 
lision with  some  more  or  less  incensed  pedestrian,  such  as 
the  printer's  devil,  who  cried,  "Now  then,  Snobby,  where 
are  yer  a-comin'  to?"  or  the  stout  red-faced  matron  in 
black,  displaying  a  row  of  bootlaces  and  a  paper  of  small- 
tooth  combs  for  sale — who  emerged  from  the  swing-doors 
of  a  public-house  as  P.  C.  Breagh  charged  past  them,  and 
wanted  to  know  whether  he  called  himself  a  young  man  or 
a  mad  bull?  A  well-dressed,  elderly  gentleman,  carrying 
a  calf-skin  bag  and  a  gold-mounted  umbrella,  confounded 
him  for  a  "bungling,  blundering,  blackguardly !  .  .  .  and 
was  left  reveling  in  alliteratives  as  the  provoker  of  his 
wrath  swung  out  of  the  Lane  and  found  himself  upon  the 
reported  Tom  Tiddler's  ground  of  Fleet  Street.  And 
then  a  curious  swirling  giddiness  overtook  him,  and  he 
dropped  down  upon  some  stone  steps  under  the  Gothic 
doorway  of  a  church  with  a  lofty  tower,  and  sat  there  with 
hunched  shoulders  and  drooped  head,  staring  dully  at  the 
pavement  between  his  muddy  boots. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  dull  resentment  at  his  lot,  but  no 
base  hatred  of  that  old  man  with  the  shattered  skull,  lying 
prone  among  the  bloody  litter  of  his  office-table,  mingled 
with  it.  All  his  life,  since  that  sixth  birthday  when  he  had 
learned  the  meaning  of  Death,  and  the  potential  value  of 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  35 

Money,  the  attainment  of  his  twenty-third  year  had  been 
the  goal  toward  which  he  had  striven;  and  every  third  of 
January  crossed  off  the  almanac  "brings  me  nearer,"  he 
had  said  to  himself,  "to  the  money  that  will  be  mine  to 
spend  as  I  shall  choose!" 

And  now  .  .  .  without  a  profession — for  he  had  failed 
to  obtain  his  degrees  in  Medicine  and  Surgery — without 
funds,  for  a  reason  that  did  him  no  dishonor — without 
books  or  belongings  of  any  kind  except  the  clothes  upon 
his  back;  without  hope — for  who  can  be  hopeful  on  an 
empty  and  craving  stomach? — without  work  to  occupy 
those  strong  young  hands  and  the  sound,  capable  brain 
behind  those  gray,  amber-flecked  eyes,  the  unlucky  young 
man  who  had  been  reared  on  expectations  sat  under  St. 
Dunstan's  Tower;  and  heard  St.  Dunstan's  clock  and  St. 
Paul's,  and  all  the  other  City  churches  answer  the  boom 
of  Big  Ben  of  Westminster,  solemnly  striking  the  hour  of 
ten. 

His  prospects  had  been  blighted  and  ruined,  his  young 
hopes  lay  dead:  he  felt  bruised  and  battered  by  the  ex- 
periences and  discoveries  of  that  birthday  morning,  as 
though  the  pair  of  wooden  clock-giants  that  some  forty 
years  back  had  figured  among  the  City  sights  from  their 
vantage  in  the  ancient  steeple  of  St.  Dunstan  's,  had  beaten 
out  the  hour  with  their  mallets  on  his  head. 

His  stepmother  had  always  resented  the  monetary  inde- 
pendence of  her  husband 's  son  by  Milly  Fermeroy.  Well ! 
she  and  her  vulgarities,  her  resentments  and  jealousies,  had 
long  been  laid  to  rest,  poor  soul! 

In  that  bloody  June  of  the  Mutiny  of  '57  she  and  her 
two  youngest  children  had  perished  at  Cawnpore.  A  fort- 
night later  Major  Breagh,  previously  wounded  in  the 
head  by  a  shell-splinter  in  the  defense  of  the  entrench- 
ments, was  bayoneted  by  a  Sepoy  infantryman  during  a 
desperate  sortie. 

Carolan  had  remained  as  a  boarder  at  the  Preparatory 
School  of  the  Marist  Fathers  at  Rockhampton  where  he 
had  previously  been  placed,  thanks  to  the  "interference," 
as  Mrs.  Breagh  had  phrased  it,  of  the  regimental  chaplain, 
Father  Haygarty.  And,  owing  to  the  same  influence,  Mon- 
ica, Carolan 's  junior  by  two  years,  had — after  the  double 
stroke  of  Fate  that  left  the  children  orphaned — been  sent  to 


36  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  Sisters  of  the  Annunciation  in  London,  the  charges  of 
her  support  and  education  being  defrayed  out  of  the  inter- 
est of  Carolan's  seven  thousand,  and  the  compassionate 
allowance  of  twenty-five  pounds  granted  her  by  Govern- 
ment as  the  orphan  daughter  of  an  officer  killed  in  war. 


VI 

TO-DAY,  as  P.  C.  Breagh  sat  paupered  on  the  doorstep  of 
St.  Dunstan  's,  he  realized  that,  from  childhood  to  this  hour, 
dead  Milly's  money  had  been  his  bane. 

"When  I  was  quite  a  little  shaver  I  expected  to  be 
knocked  under  to,  and  given  the  best  of  everything,  because 
I  was  going  to  be  rich  one  day.  ...  I  knew  my  money  kept 
my  stepmother  from  grumbling  and  nagging  at  me.  And 
— my  first  thrashing  at  Rockhampton  was  because  I'd 
bragged  about  it  to  a  bigger  boy.  He  said  when  he  let 
me  get  up — that  I  should  be  obliged  to  him  one  day,  if  I 
wasn  't  at  the  moment !  And  my  first  fight — no,  my  second 
— because  the  first  was  over  my  Irish  brogue! — my  second 
fight  came  off  because  I'd  forgotten  my  lesson,  and  talked 
about  being  able  to  drive  four-in-hand,  and  live  up  to  a 
Commission  in  the  Household  Cavalry  when  I  should 
come  of  age.  .  .  .  Silly  young  idiot!  And  when  I  was  old 
enough  for  a  public  school — and  passed — I  wonder,  with 
my  luck,  how  I  managed  to  pass? — into  Bradenbury  Col- 
lege— I  had  mills,  no  end!  with  the  fellows  there,  because 
I  couldn  't  keep  mum  about  my  expectations. ' ' 

He  leaned  his  dusty  elbows  on  his  knees  and  went  on 
thinking,  as  a  regular  procession  of  legs  of  all  sexes,  ages, 
and  colors  went  past,  and  the  muddy  river  of  Fleet  Street 
traffic  roared  over  the  cobblestones,  boiled  in  swirling 
eddies  where  it  received  the  stream  flowing  down  Chancery 
Lane,  and  choked  and  gurgled  in  and  out  of  the  squat 
archways  of  Temple  Bar. 

"  I  'd  talked  of  Oxford  as  a  preliminary  to  Sandhurst  and 
a  Cavalry  Commission — and  I  went  in  for  an  Exhibition 
Entrance — but  my  classics  queered  me  for  the  University. 
Knock  Number  One!  The  Head  put  it  on  the  Italianate 
Latin  I'd  learned  from  the  Marist  Fathers — and  why  old 
Virgil,  and  Ovid,  Horace,  Caesar,  and  Livy,  and  the  rest 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  3T 

of  'em,  should  be  supposed  to  have  pronounced  their 
language  with  a  British  accent  I've  never  been  able  to 
understand !  .  .  .  When  I  went  up  for  the  Woolwich  Open 
Competitive — having  altered  my  views  about  the  Household 
Cavalry ! — my  plane  trigonometry  dished  me  for  the  Royal 
Horse  Artillery.  .  .  .  Knock  Number  Two !  So  I  told  my- 
self that  it  wasn't  as  easy  getting  into  a  Queen's  uniform 
as  it  was  in  my  father's  time.  .  .  .  You  were  given  the 
Commission — or  you  bought  it — and  if  you  could  drill,  and 
march,  and  fight,  no  more  was  asked  of  you.  .  .  .  And 
I  tried  for  the  Royal  Engineering  College  of  India — and 
failed  in  dynamics — and  had  a  shot  for  the  I.C.S. — and 
missed  again!  Oh,  damn!  And  do  I  owe  every  one  of 
the  whole  string  of  failures  to  the  belief  that  money  makes 
up  for  everything  and  buys  anything  ?  I  'm  half  beginning 
to  believe  I  do!  Even  the  kindness  I  have  had  from 
people  I'd  no  claim  on — and  who  is  there  alive  I  have  a 
claim  on?  Have  I  been  cad  enough — ape  enough — worm 

enough — to  put  it  down  to Grrh! — how  I  loathe 

myself ! ' 

He  covered  his  reddened  face  with  his  hands  and  shud- 
dered. It  is  horrible  to  have  to  go  on  living  inside  a  fellow 
you  have  begun  to  hate. 

' '  Even  Father  Haygarty  's  untiring  kindness,  his  interest 
in  all  I  did  and  thought  and  hoped  for.  .  .  .  Weren  't  there 
times  when  I  suspected  that  my — in  some  degree  repre- 
senting property — accounted  for — oh,  Lord!  And  when 
he  was  dying  and  his  housekeeper  sent  for  me — for  he'd 
given  up  being  an  army  chaplain  and  got  a  little  living 
in  Gloucestershire — did  I  realize  even  then  what  a  friend 
and  father  I  was  losing?  I  hope  to  God  I  did,  but  I'm 
hardly  sure  of  myself!" 

He  stubbed  with  the  toe  of  his  muddy  boot  the  jutting 
corner  of  a  paving-stone,  and  scowled  at  the  image  of  him- 
self that  was  growing  more  and  more  distinct.  He  had 
always  thought  P.  C.  Breagh  rather  a  fine  young  fellow. 
Now  he  knew  him  for  what  he  had  always  been. 

"When  Father  Haygarty  was  gone — it  wasn't  long  be- 
fore Mustey  and  Son  began  to  send  explanations  and 
apologies,  instead  of  the  whole  of  the  quarter's  interest- 
money.  There  had  been  a  drop  in  securities  of  this  kind 
and  the  other,  and  Consols  were  down — and  at  first  I  was 
as  pleased  as  a  prize  poodle  at  being  made  excuses  to.  .  .  . 


38  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

But  the  fact  remained  that  where  I'd  been  getting  two 
hundred  and  forty,  I  was  only  getting  one  hundred  and 
seventy-three.  .  .  .  And  that — if  I  really  meant  to  go  in 
for  my  Degree  in  Surgery  and  Medicine,  for  I'd  made  up 
my  mind  to  be  a  medical  swell — I  had — if  Monica  was  to 
go  on  staying  with  the  Sisters ! — I  'd  got  to  give  up  the  idea 
of  Edinburgh,  or  the  London  University,  and  matriculate 
somewhere  abroad.  So  I  went  to  Schwarz-Brettingen, 
and  shared  rooms  with  another  English  chap.  ...  It  was 
admitted  I  had  solid  abilities — the  Professors  whose  lec- 
tures I  attended  thought  well  of  me.  And  I  failed ! — Failed 
for  the  fourth  time !  Have  I  the  accursed  money  to  thank 
for  that  last  blow?" 

He  perspired  as  though  he  had  been  running,  and, 
indeed,  nothing  takes  it  out  of  you  like  a  sprint  over  the 
course  of  the  past  with  your  conscience  as  pacer. 

"I'd  thought  myself  rather  a  fine  fellow  when,  with  my 
student-card  in  my  pocket  and  my  Anmeldungsbuch  in  my 
hand  I  called — in  company  with  a  squad  of  other  candi- 
dates— on  the  Rector  Magnificus.  "We  had  a  punch  after- 
wards, and  a  drive  and  coffee  at  the  Plesse — and  made  a 
night  of  it  at  Fritz's.  I  woke  with  a  first-class  student's 
headache  in  the  morning,  and  a  hazy  recollection  that  I'd 
told  one  or  two  of  the  British  colony — in  confidence — and 
several  Germans — about  the  money  I  was  coming  into 
by-and-by.  ..." 

He  ground  his  teeth  and  squeezed  his  eyelids  together, 
trying  to  shut  out  the  picture  of  P.  C.  Breagh  in  the 
character  of  a  howling  cad. 

"But  if  I  bragged — and  I  did  brag! — I  worked.  .  .  . 
The  Marist  Fathers  had  grounded  me  in  French  and  Ger- 
man in  spite  of  myself,  and  my  pride  had  been  nicely  stung 
up  by  that  failure  for  Sandhurst  and  the  others.  .  .  . 
Men  told  me  what  I  'd  got  to  grind  at,  and  I  ground ;  filling 
piles  of  lecture-pads  with  notes  on  all  sorts  of  subjects. 
Anatomy,  physiology,  physics,  chemistry,  botany,  and  zo- 
ology. .  .  .  My  brain  was  a  salad  of  'em — but  I  passed 
the  Abiturienteii-Examen  at  a  classical  gymnasium  with  a 
better  certificate  than  a  lot  of  other  Freshmen — thanks  to 
the  Marist  Fathers,  who'd  pounded  Latin  and  Greek  into 
me ! — and  then — after  two  years  of  walking  hospitals,  at- 
tending demonstrations  and  lectures,  and  doing  laboratory- 
work — varied  by  beers  and  schldger — and  more  beers  and 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  39 

more  schldger! — and  perhaps  I  took  to  sword-play  all  the 
more  kindly  because  of  the  soldier-blood  in  me ! — came 
the  first  regular  examination.  And  I  don't  forget  that 
third  of  November — not  while  I'm  breathing!" 

Donnerwetter!  P.  C.  Breagh  could  see  the  cocked- 
hatted  and  scarlet-gowned  University  beadle  ushering  a 
pale  young  man,  with  saucers  round  his  eyes,  into  the  awful 
presence  of  the  Dean  and  Examiners  in  the  Faculties  of 
Surgery  and  Medicine.  .  .  . 

The  neophyte — arrayed  in  the  swallow-tail  coat,  low- 
cut  vest,  black  cloth  inexpressibles,  white  cravat,  and  kid 
gloves  inseparable  from  an  English  dinner-party,  or  the 
ordeal  of  examination  at  a  German  university,  found  his 
inquisitors  also  in  formal  full  dress,  seated  in  a  semicircle 
facing  the  door,  and  looking  singularly  cheerful. 

A  solitary  chair  marked  the  middle  of  the  chord  of  the 
arc  formed  by  the  chairs  of  the  examiners.  Upon  this  stool 
of  judgment — after  bowing  and  shaking 'hands  all  round 
and  being  bowed  to  and  shaken — the  victim  had  been  in- 
vited to  seat  himself.  The  Dean  opened  the  ball  with 
the  Early  Theorists.  And  he  had  seemed  quite  to  cotton  to 
P.  C.  Breagh 's  ideas  on  the  subject  of  Egyptian  Sacerdotal 
Colleges,  the  preparation  of  Soma  in  the  Vedas,  the  thera- 
peutical formulas  of  Zoroaster,  Chinese  sympathetic  medi- 
cine— the  dietetic  method  of  Hippocrates — who  invented 
barley-water ! — the  observations  of  Diocles  and  Chrysippus 
and  the  criticisms  of  Galen.  At  the  expiration  of  half  an 
hour,  when  the  Hofrath  delivered  him  over  to  the  next 
examiner,  P.  C.  Breagh  had  felt  that,  if  the  others  were  no 
worse  than  the  Dean,  all  might  yet  be  well. 

Professor  Barselius,  who  followed  the  Dean,  and  was 
reported  to  be  a  terror,  when  correctly  replied  to  upon  an 
interrogation  as  to  the  chemical  composition  of  the  fatty 
acids,  vouchsafed  a  grunt  of  approbation. 

Professor  Troppenritt,  who  succeeded  Barselius,  was  a 
person  with  a  reputation  for  amiability,  and  a  mobility  of 
mental  constitution  which  enabled  him  to  flit  like  the 
butterfly  or  leap  like  the  grasshopper  from  subject  to 
subject,  harking  back  to  Number  One,  perhaps,  when  you 
felt  quite  sure  he  had  done  with  it  for  good.  But  on  that 
fateful  third  of  November  a  tricksy  demon  seemed  to  pos- 
sess Troppenritt.  He  no  longer  flitted  like  the  butterfly, 


40  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

or  hopped  like  the  grasshopper — he  sported  with  the  seven 
great  departments  of  Structural  Anatomy,  Physiology, 
Pathological  Anatomy,  General  Pathology,  Ophthalmology, 
Medicine,  Hygiene  and  Midwifery — as  a  fountain  might 
toss  up  glass  balls,  or  a  conjurer  juggle  with  daggers.  .  .  . 
His  victim  after  a  while  found  himself  breathlessly  watch- 
ing the  hugh  knobby  rampart  of  forehead,  behind  which 
the  Professor's  intentions  were  hiding,  in  the  vain  hope 
that  the  next  question  might  be  foreshadowed  on  its  shining 
surface.  A  hope  destined  never  to  be  fulfilled.  .  .  . 

The  fact  remains  that  P.  C.  Breagh,  after  some  really 
creditable  answers,  was  beginning  to  recover  the  use  of  his 
mental  faculties,  when  the  Dean — prompted  by  the  candi- 
date's evil  genius — suggested  a  little  pause  for  cake  and 
wine.  It  was  awful  to  see  how  Hofrath  and  Professors — 
there  were  three  of  them  besides  the  conjurer  Troppenritt 
— enjoyed  themselves  at  this  sacrificial  banquet,  which  had 
been  arranged  upon  a  little  table  in  a  corner,  waiting  the 
five-minute  interval.  And  P.  C.  Breagh  rejected  cake, 
which  was  of  the  gingerbread  variety,  garnished  with 
blanched  almonds  and  sugar-plums.  But  the  single  glass 
of  Riidesheimer  he  accepted  might  have  been  the  Brob- 
dingnagian  silver-mounted  horn  that  hung  within  a  garland 
of  frequently-renewed  laurel  leaves  upon  the  walls  of  a 
famous  students'  beer-hall — or  have  been  filled  with  raw 
spirits  above  proof, — the  contents  mounted  so  unerringly  to 
his  head,  and  wreaked  such  havoc  therein. 

The  three  remaining  Professors  were  almost  tender  with 
the  sufferer,  but  what  Troppenritt  had  begun,  the  win:; 
had  completed.  The  nicht  walir's  had  been  succeeding 
one  another  at  marked  intervals, — like  distress-signals  or 
funereal  minute-guns,  when  the  traditional  three  hours 
expired. 

P.  C.  Breagh — removed  to  cold  storage  in  the  anteroom — 
was  detained  but  five  minutes  longer.  .  .  .  His  nervous 
shiverings  had  reached  a  crescendo,  when  the  beadle  opened 
the  door.  .  .  .  And  the  Dean,  stepping  forward,  in  stac- 
cato accents  delivered  himself: 

"Candidate,  from  the  quality  of  the  dissertations  in 
writing  previously  submitted,  we,  the  Faculty  of  Surgery 
and  Medicine  of  the  University  of  Schwarz-Brettingeu — 
would  a  more  satisfaction-imparting  result  have  antici- 
pated as  the  result  of  the  just-concluded  oral  examination 


THE    MAN    OF    IKON  41 

undergone  by  you.  .  .  .  But  although  lacking  in  Gedacht- 
niss — has  been  manifested  on  your  part  a  so-remarkable 
degree  of  Eiiibildung  and  Begriff  that  the  Faculty  of-hesi- 
tation-none-whatever  have  in  the  following-adviee-to-you- 
imparting ; — Yourself  another  semester  give,  or  better  still, 
another  twelvemonth!  and  try  again,  young  man! — try 
again ! ' ' 

Not  bad  advice,  if  the  young  man  had  chosen  to  follow 
it.  But  January  drew  near,  and  the  inheritor-expectant 
of  seven  thousand  pounds  scorned  to  toil  and  moil  over 
intellectual  ground  already  traversed.  He  had  tried  for 
honors,  and  he  had  failed,  thanks  to  the  hypnotizing 
methods  of  the  too-agile  Troppenritt. 

So  P.  C.  Breagh  spent  the  money  that  would  have  kept 
him,  with  economy,  for  six  months,  in  giving  a  farewell 
banquet  to  his  friends ;  called — in  his  best  attire,  with  kid 
gloves  and  a  buttonhole  bouquet — on  his  favorite  lec- 
turers; left  cards  on  the  wives  of  those  who  possessed 
them;  paid  his  landlady — who  had  faithfully  labored  to 
convert  his  formal,  class-room  German  into  a  malleable, 
useful  tongue, — kissed  her  round  cheek — tipped  the  civil 
servant-maid  five  dollars, — and  turned  his  back  for  ever  on 
Schwarz-Brettingen,  its  Aula,  Collegien-Haus,  Theatrum 
Anatomicum,  Botanical  Garden,  Library  and  Career — (a 
correctional  edifice  the  interior  accommodations  of  which 
were  only  known  to  him  by  hearsay), — its  restaurants, 
beer-saloons,  coffee-gardens,  and  fencing-halls;  its  chilly 
wood-stoves,  its  glowing  enthusiasms;  its  pleasant  compan- 
ionships, its  passing  flirtations  with  schoppen -bearing 
Hebes,  and  nymphs  of  the  coffee-garden,  restaurant,  or 
ninepin  alley.  One  cannot  say  its  love-affairs,  because  in 
the  esteem  of  P.  C.  Breagh — though  Passion  might  bloom 
red  by  the  wayside  at  every  mile  of  a  man's  journey — 
Love  was  a  rare  blossom  found  once  in  a  lifetime,  too  often 
never  found  at  all. 

P.  C.  Breagh 's  idea  of  Love  was  that  it  should  be  spelt 
with  a  capital,  and  spoken  of  in  whispers.  Nor,  let  us  hint, 
was  the  ideal  Woman  at  whose  feet,  he  promised  himself,  he 
would  one  day  pour  forth  all  the  gold  and  jewels  of  his 
heart  and  intellect,  a  being  to  be  lightly  trifled  with. 

To  commence  with,  she  would  have  to  be  six  feet  high  or 
thereabouts.  .  .  .  Blue-eyed,  blonde-haired,  of  classical 


42  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

features,  cream-and-rose  complexion,  powerful  intellect 
and  thews  matching,  the  ideal  woman  of  P.  C.  Breagh  must 
have  weighed  about  fourteen  stone.  He  imagined  her  a 
kind  of  Britomart-Krimhilde-Briinhilde-Isolde — with  a 
dash  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  Kingsley's  Hypatia,  and  a 
spice  of  Edith  Dombey  and  the  beautiful  shrewish  Roman 
Princess  out  of  "The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth" — though 
these  heroines  were  jetty-locked,  and  for  this  reason  fell 
short  of  P.  C.  Breagh 's  ideal  of  female  loveliness.  Fair  and 
colossal,  he  had  seen  her  over  and  over  again, — though  a 
little  too  roseate  and  pulpy  in  texture  to  come  up  to  his 
ideal — in  the  vast  canvases  of  Kaulbach  and  in  the  over- 
whelming frescoes  of  the  Bavarian  Spiess.  But  he  had 
never  yet  encountered  her  in  the  flesh.  One  day  they 
would  meet — and  she  would  be  scornful  of  the  young,  ob- 
scure, unknown  man  who  looked  at  her — she  felt  it  from 
the  first,  and  that  made  her  quite  furious! — with  the  eye 
of  a  consciously  superior  being — a  master  in  posse. 

All  the  masculine  world  would  bow  down  before  the  in- 
tellect combined  with  the  beauty — of  Britomart-Kriemhilde- 
Briinhilde-Isolde — and  so  on,  for  he  amalgamated  new  hero- 
ines with  the  others,  in  the  course  of  his  reading.  But  one 
man  lived  who  would  not  bow  down.  She  would  taunt  him 
with  this  stiff-necked  pride  of  his,  in  the  course  of  an  in- 
terview on  the  terrace  of  a  castle,  whose  moat  he  had  swum 
and  whose  guarded  ramparts  he  had  scaled  in  order  to 
be  discovered,  scorning  her,  and  communing  with  the 
moon.  And  he  would  quell  her  tempestuous  wrath,  and  si- 
lence her  reproaches,  by  telling  her  that  it  was  for  her  to 
pay  homage  and  court  smiles.  Then  she  would  summon  her 
vassals  and  lovers,  and  half  a  dozen  of  them  would  set  upon 
P.  C.  Breagh,  who  would  strangle  one  with  his  naked  hands, 
run  another  through  with  his  own  sword — and  provide 
materials,  broadly  speaking,  for  half  a  dozen  first-class 
funerals — before  he  leapt  into  the  moat,  carrying  a  rose 
that  she  had  dropped  between  his  teeth— and  "gained  the 
distant  bank  in  safety,"  or  "dripping  and  bloody,  emerged 
from  the  dark  water,  gripped  an  iron  chain,  eaten  urith  the 
rust  of  centuries,  and,  painfully  scaling  the  frowning  ma- 
sonry, disappeared  into  the  .  .  ."  etc. 

Absurd,  if  you  will,  and  bombastic  and  impossibly  high- 
flown.  Yet  such  boyish  dreams  keep  the  soul  clean  and 
the  body  from  grosser  stain.  Walking  with  your  head 


43 

erect  you  may  stub  your  toe,  and  come  a  cropper  on  the 
stones  occasionally.  But  you  pick  yourself  up  again  and 
proceed  more  warily — none  the  less  rejoicing,  seeing  the 
splendor  of  the  sunset,  or  braving  the  blaze  of  noonday, 
or  drinking  in  the  delicate  spring-like  hues  of  dawn.  .  .  . 

One  does  not  know  how  long  P.  C.  Breagh  might  have 
remained  upon  the  steps  of  St.  Dunstan's,  had  not  the 
hour  of  twelve  sounded  from  the  new  clock — a  youngster 
barely  forty  years  old — that  had  replaced  the  gong-ham- 
mering wooden  giants,  now  on  view  outside  the  Marquis  of 
Hertford's  villa  in  Regent's  Park.  A  constable  civilly 
asked  him  to  move  on.  He  got  up,  heavily,  and  mechan- 
ically felt  for  his  watch  that  was  in  keeping  of  the  landlord 
of  the  fourth-rate  hostelry  in  the  Euston  Road.  And  it  oc- 
curred to  him — as  a  pin-prick  among  innumerable  stiletto 
strokes — that  the  watch  alone,  being  a  heavy  silver  one 
attached  to  a  slender  gold  snake-chain  once  the  property 
of  dead  Milly — would  have  satisfied  the  man 's  claim,  which, 
exorbitant  as  it  was  for  the  accommodation  afforded,  was 
considerably  under  three  pounds.  You  are  to  understand 
that  P.  C.  Breagh  had  been  so  certain  of  returning  in  a 
few  hours,  heavy  with  ready  money,  that  he  had  treated 
the  landlord's  detention  of  his  luggage  as  a  joke. 

The  present  situation  was  no  joke.  But  Youth  preserves 
above  all  the  property  of  rising  unbruised  and  elastic  from 
a  tumble,  and  of  healing  readily  when  it  has  sustained  men- 
tal or  physical  wounds ! 

The  blood  in  the  veins  of  P.  C.  Breagh  was  mingled  with 
the  finer  strain  that  came  from  the  breed  of  Fermeroy. 
He  had  no  idea  of  finding  a  craven's  refuge  in  suicide.  The 
single  shilling  remaining  to  him  might  purchase  sufficient 
strychnine  for  a  painful,  unheroic  exit,  but  P.  C.  Breagh 
was  not  disposed  to  invest  his  remaining  capital  in  that 
unpleasant  alkaloid.  And  neither  did  it  occur  to  him  then 
to  test  the  depth  and  drowning-capacity  of  the  muddy 
liquid  running  under  any  one  of  London's  bridges,  from 
Westminster  to  the  Tower.  For  by  the  contradictory  law 
of  Nature,  reversing  scientific  fact,  a  helpless  weight  that 
hung  about  his  strong  young  neck  kept  his  moral  head 
above  the  turbid  waters  of  Despondency. 

He  was  not  alone  in  the  world.  There  was  Monica. 
With  the  remembrance  of  that  frail  link,  binding  him  to 


44,  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  rest  of  humanity,  awakened  in  him  the  desire  to  see  her. 
He  turned  his  face  Westward  and  stepped  into  the  mov- 
ing throng. 


VII 

THE  Great  Class  fermented  in  irrepressible  excitement. 
Subsequently  to  the  arrival  of  a  foreign  mail,  Juliette 
Bayard  had  been  summoned  by  an  attendant  lay-sister  to 
the  presence  of  Mere  M.  Catherine-Rose. 

She  had  remained  nearly  half  an  hour  in  the  Parlor  of 
Cold  Feet — so  called  in  recognition  of  the  fact  that  the 
apartment  contained  no  fireplace,  and  that  even  in  the 
hottest  weather  cool  draughts  played  hide-and-seek  across 
the  polished  parquet  from  circular  brazen  gratings  inserted 
in  the  wainscot,  which  ancient  legend  connected  with  the 
presence  of  a  French  calorifere. 

"When  the  door  opened  and  Juliette  emerged,  somewhere 
about  the  middle  of  the  noon  recreation,  an  advance-patrol 
in  the  shape  of  a  pupil  of  the  Little  Class,  by  name  Laura 
Foljambe — happened  to  be  buttoning  a  shoe-strap  at  the 
end  of  the  corridor.  The  apoplectic  attitude  inseparable 
from  this  particular  employment  would  have  rendered 
observation  impossible — in  the  case  of  an  adult.  But 
Laura,  under  the  cover  of  a  luxuriant  head  of  yellow  ring- 
lets, unconfined  by  any  comb  or  ribbon,  observed,  firstly, 
that  Juliette  had  been  crying,  and  secondly,  that  Mere  M. 
Catherine-Rose  had  tears  in  her  own  eyes.  More,  she  had 
called  Juliette  back,  embraced  her  affectionately,  and  said : 
"We  shall  miss  you,  my  dear!"  "You  .will  be  brave,  I 
know!"  and  "Remember  to  write!"  Packed  with  news, 
Laura  rushed  into  the  Lesser  Hall,  where  the  seniors  were 
gathered  round  the  stove,  the  raw  chill  of  the  January 
weather  rendering  the  garden  a  place  of  penitence,  and 
emptied  her  budget  of  intelligence  upon  the  spot. 

Juliette  must  be  going  away!  The  forty  girls  of  the 
Great  Class  had  unanimously  arrived  at  this  conclusion 
when  Juliette  herself  arrived  upon  the  scene.  It  needed 
but  a  glance  to  assure  her  of  the  treachery  of  Laura;  it 
needed  but  a  moment,  and  the  spy,  blubbering  and  pro- 
testing, was  seized,  shaken,  and  forced  upon  her 
knees.  . 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  45 

You  are  to  understand  that  when  Juliette  Bayard  was 
angry,  she  was  so  with  a  vengeance.  Heroic  by  tempera- 
ment, her  wrath  smacked  of  the  superhuman.  A  demi- 
goddess  enraged  might  have  manifested  as  semi-divine  a 
frenzy.  Ordinary  prose  seemed  too  poor  a  vehicle  to 
convey  such  indignation.  You  expected  hexameters  or 
Alexandrines.  .  .  . 

''That  you  listened  I  would  stake  my  honor! — I  would 
pledge  my  life ! — I  would  put  the  hand  in  the  fire !  Mean ! 
Base!  Despicable!  Ah,  you  look  simple,  little  thing,  but 
you  are  cunning  as  a  mouse — fine  as  amber!  No!  I 
do  not  pinch,  I  would  scorn  it — you  know  that  perfectly! 
Yes!  I  will  permit  you  to  go  when  you  confess  who  set 
you  on!" 

Laura,  unwilling  to  incur  the  resentment  of  forty  grown- 
ups, undesirous  of  forfeiting  the  saccharine  reward  of 
treachery,  boohooed  in  a  whisper,  for  class-hour  was  ap- 
proaching. The  wrathful  goddess  towered  over  her,  eyed 
with  blue  lightning,  crowned  with  dusky  clouds  of  thunder, 
flushed  like  the  sunset  that  comes  after  the  day  of  storm. 

Had  Arthur  Hughes  or  Fred  Walker  been  privileged  to 
peep — one  painter  at  least  would  have  armed  her  uplifted 
hand  with  a  bulrush-spear,  helmeted  her  with  a  curled 
water-lily  leaf,  and  given  the  smiling  world  Titania  in  the 
character  of  Pallas  Athene,  or  Queen  Mab  as  an  Amazon. 
And  Juliette  would  never  have  pardoned  the  painter. 
For — despite  the  testimony  of  her  tale  of  inches — she 
would  have  it  that  she  was  tall,  even  above  the  average 
height  of  woman. 

' '  I  shall  not  be  beautiful,  no !  but  I  shall  be  command- 
ing!" she  had  assured  those  favored  girls  on  whom  she 
deigned  to  bestow  her  imperial  confidence.  This  select 
number  in  turn  possessing  a  circle  of  confidantes,  the  drop 
of  a  secret  meant  a  series  of  widening  rings,  extending  to 
the  circle  of  the  day  scholars,  reaching  the  Orphanage  by- 
and-by,  and  trickling  at  length  into  the  basement,  where 
the  Poor  School  assembled  on  "Wednesdays  and  Fridays, 
to  gather  up  the  crumbs  of  knowledge  that  fell  from  the 
tables  of  the  daughters  of  the  great  and  rich. 

You  may  imagine  the  scene  in  Lesser  Hall  upon  this 
chilly  day  in  January.  Excitement  was  much  more  warm- 
ing than  crowding  round  the  smoky  stoves.  Of  the  semi- 
circle of  great  girls  in  their  black  school-dresses,  enlivened 


46  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

only  by  the  red  or  white  class-rosettes,  or  the  pale  blue 
ribbons  of  the  Children  of  Mary,  all  the  heads,  adorned 
with  every  shade  of  feminine  tresses, — all  the  eyes  of  all 
colors,  set  in  faces  plain  or  pretty — were  turned  toward 
the  tragic  figure  of  Juliette. 

Once  kindled,  such  violet  fires  of  wrath  blazed  in  those 
implacable  eyes,  one  would  have  supposed  nothing  could 
ever  quench  them.  But  when  she  was  sorrowful,  they 
were  bottomless  lakes  of  misery.  Despair  lay  drowned  and 
wan  amid  the  long  black  sedges  drooping  at  their  bor- 
ders. Under  the  dark,  hollowed  precipices  that  shadowed 
them  it  seemed  as  though  no  sun  could  ever  shine.  But 
when  the  laugh  was  born,  it  leaped  to  the  surface  with  a 
quiver  that  caught  the  light  and  flashed  it  back  pure  sap- 
phire or  loveliest  Persian  turquoise.  No  face  ever  framed 
of  earthly  clay  had  more  of  the  mirth  of  Heaven  in  it, 
then.  Her  long  upper  lip,  the  elastic,  mobile  feature  that 
could  draw  out  to  so  portentous  a  length,  would  be  haunted 
by  flying  smiles,  and  the  deep-cut  corners  of  her  short 
scarlet  under  lip  would  quiver.  To  inventory  the  beauties 
of  a  young  lady  and  omit  the  nose  would  suggest  cause 
for  reticence  on  the  writer's  part.  Juliette's  nose  was  not 
of  Greek  or  Roman  type,  but  neither  was  it  snubbed  or 
tip-tilted.  It  had  a  rounded  end,  and  deep,  curved,  pas- 
sionate nostrils.  It  pertained  to  no  known  order  of  nasal 
architecture.  It  was  Juliette's  nose,  and  could  never  have 
belonged  to  anybody  else. 

If  you  would  more  of  her, — and  after  the  first  encounter 
you  either  sought  or  shunned — loved  or  loathed — as  she 
would  have  had  you  do  who  was  in  all  things  sincere  and 
candid,  you  are  to  understand  that  her  cloud  of  dusky 
hair  framed  a  small  oval  face  that  made  no  show  of  carna- 
tion or  vaunt  of  rose.  Her  clear  fine  skin  was  almost  always 
pale.  She  would  have  laughed  you  to  scorn  had  you 
likened  those  colorless  cheeks  of  hers  to  lilies.  She  prided 
herself  upon  a  frame  of  mind  eminently  commonplace, 
antipodean  to  the  romantic.  "I  am  sensible,  me!"  you 
often  heard  her  say. 

In  form — though  as  you  know  she  believed  herself  to  be 
a  giantess — she  was  small  and  slight,  and  not  at  all  re- 
markable. A  framework  of  slender  bones,  frugally  covered 
with  tender,  healthful  flesh.  Her  shoulders  sloped  so 
much  that  in  her  loose-bodied,  full-sleeved,  black  merino 


THE    MAN    OF,   IRON  47 

school  uniform  she  seemed  about  to  vanish.  Her  hips  were 
narrow,  without  the  voluptuous  curves  that  belong  to 
heroines.  But  a  Divine  jest  had  added  to  her  little  high- 
arched  head  a  tiny  pair  of  rosy  shells  for  hearing,  and  the 
palms  and  nails  and  finger-tips  of  her  narrow  hands, — and 
feet  I  have  heard  it  said  by  some  who  loved  her — were 
roseate  also.  The  younger  children  liked  to  pretend  that 
this  was  a  judgment  on  Juliette  for  stealing  strawberries 
in  the  early  June  season,  but  she  only  joined  in  that  one 
raid  on  the  Sisters'  kitchen-garden  "To  be  a  good  com- 
rade!" .  .  .  and  as  it  happened,  all  the  strawberries  were 
slug-eaten.  And  where  are  there  strawberries  worth  the 
stealing,  unless  it  be  in  France? 

F'or  next  to  God  and  Our  Lady,  and  her  father  M.  le 
Colonel,  Juliette  Bayard  loved  her  country.  Paradise  was 
but  an  improvement  on  France,  to  hear  her  describe  it  to 
the  little  ones.  Further,  though  she  had  a  perfect  taste  in 
dress,  when  released  from  the  school  uniform;  though  an 
ordinary  hat  under  her  deft  transforming  fingers  would 
become  a  miracle  of  exquisite  millinery;  her  groups  of 
flowers,  and  landscapes,  in  water-color,  her  crayon  Jog's 
heads,  were  mercifully  hidden  from  the  drawing-master's 
eye.  She  sang  out  of  tune,  but  in  time ;  played  correctly, 
but  hated  the  piano;  danced  like  an  air- wafted  tuft  of 
dandelion-down  or  a  gnat  upon  a  summer  evening, — and 
had  a  Heaven-born  gift  for  housekeeping  and  cookery. 

Of  this  last  gift  more  anon.  Meanwhile  Laura  writhed, 
or  seemed  to  writhe,  under  the  torrent  of  passionate  re- 
proaches, culminating  in  another  shake,  and  a  slap  which 
might  have  damaged  a  kitten  newly-born.  Laura  fell 
prone,  moaning  and  gurgling.  And  Juliette,  pierced  by 
remorse  at  her  own  ruthlessness,  sank,  pale  as  ashes,  beside 
the  victim's  corse. 

"Darling  Laura!  sweetest  Laura! — tell  me  I  have  not 
hurt  you!  Just  Heaven!  how  could  I  strike  you? — I, 
who  am  so  strong !  Indeed,  I  might  have  killed  you !  .  .  . 
Pray  for  me,  my  little  angel!  It  will  need  a  miracle  to 
cure  my  temper,  as  Mother  Veronica  constantly  says. 
Cannot  you  get  up  ?  Do  try,  to  please  me !  Tell  me 
where  you  feel  most  injured  ?  Quick,  or  I  know  I  shall  be 
angry  again !  .  .  .  Show  me  the  bruise !  Pouf !  that  is  a 
mere  nothing!  I  will  kiss  it  and  make  it  well,  and  you 
shall  have  the  blue  bead  Rosary. ' ' 


48  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

The  mention  of  the  blue  beads  palpably  restored  vitality. 
The  sufferer  was  understood  to  intimate  that  a  chocolate 
elephant  would  absolutely  complete  the  cure. 

"The  elephant  to-morrow  when  the  Great  Class  return 
from  the  promenade.  The  Rosary  before  Benediction. 
Away  with  you ! ' ' 

Laura  scuttled.  Juliette  blew  her  a  parting  kiss,  and 
said,  with  a  comprehensive  glance  of  scorn  at  the  faces  of 
her  classmates: 

"It  was  not  she  who  deserved  the I  have  not  the 

expression !  ...  It  is  one  of  your  English  words  that  mean 
many  things  together  ...  a  kiss  ...  a  blow  .  .  .  the  boat 
of  a  sailor  who  catches  fishes  and  crabs.  ...  I  have  seen 
such  boats  at  Havre  and  Weymouth,  and  they  are  very 
pretty.  .  .  .  Ah!  Now  I  remember.  You  call  them  fish- 
ing-spanks ! ' ' 

The  Class  shrieked.  Juliette  stood  calmly  while  the 
tumult  of  laughter  and  exclamations  raged  about  her. 
Her  long  upper  lip  shut  down  upon  its  scarlet  neighbor, 
her  brows  frowned  a  little;  her  slender  arms,  lost  in  their 
loose  sleeves,  hung  straightly  by  her  narrow  sides.  Miilais 
would,  seeing  her,  have  painted  a  maiden  martyr.  Watts 
might  have  limned  her  as  Persephone  new-loosed  from  the 
dark  embrace  of  Dis,  her  wooer,  taking  her  first  timid  steps 
upon  the  glowing  floor  of  Hell. 

"When  you  have  finished  making  so  much  noise — pen 
importe — but  I  have  a  piece  of  news  to  tell  you.  You  are 
none  of  you  inquisitive — that  goes  without  saying! — or 
you  would  not  have  dispatched  that  poor  infant  to  play 
the  spy  outside  the  parlor  door.  Bridget-Mary  and 
Alethea  Bawne,  I  do  not  mean  you — you  are  souls  of  honor 
— incapable  of  curiosity!  .  .  .  Also,  Monica  Breagh,  c'est 
la  son  moindre  defaut!  But  there  are  others — yet  my 
friends — who  are  not  so  delicate, — and  to  these  I  address 
myself.  You  do  not  deserve  to  hear — and  yet  I  cannot  be 
unkind  to  you;  I,  who  have  such  joy  of  the  heart  in  the 
knowledge  that  I  am  to  return  to  my  dear  father! — such 
grief — ah!  but  such  grief  of  the  soul  in  bidding  adieu  to 
the  School!" 

"Not  for  good?" 

"You  are  going  to  leave  the  School?" 

"Dear,  darling  Juliette,  say  you're  only  joking!" 

"She  is  in  earnest.    Look  at  her  upper  lip!" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  49 

"Vous  moquez-vous  du  monde  de  parler  ainsi!" 

Throbbed  out  a  Spanish  voice,  husky  and  passionate : 

"Que  vergiienza!    No,  no,  es  imposible!" 

''Sure,  dear,  you'd  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  make  game 
of  us?" 

She  stood  her  ground,  firm,  but  no  longer  frowning. 
Her  heart  swelled,  her  eyes  were  heavy  with  the  promise  of 
rain.  Her  slender  arms  went  out  as  though  she  would  have 
embraced  them  all. 

''My  dears,  it  is  true!  I  go  to  Versailles  to  rejoin  my 
father.  He  says  to  me  also — I  have  his  letter  here ! "  .  .  . 

Silence  fell  upon  the  turbulent  crowd  as  she  laid  a  slen- 
der hand  on  the  place  where  her  heart  could  be  seen 
throbbing.  The  paper  rustled,  but  she  did  not  draw  it 
forth. ' 

"He  says,  in  this — I  am  to  be  married  .  .  .  soon, — very 
quickly ! ' ' 

A  Babel  of  cries,  ejaculations,  and  exclamations  broke 
out  about  her.  A  girl's  voice,  more  strident  than  the  rest, 
shrieked : 

"I  hate  your  father!  Beast!"  and  broke  down  in  hys- 
terical sobbing.  Juliette  replied,  those  about  her  hushed 
to  hear;  and  in  the  oasis  of  silence  her  tender,  silvery 
voice  rose  like  a  fountain  springing  from  the  heart  of 
purity. 

"My  father  is  not  what  you  say,  but  the  Emperor's 
brave  soldier  and  a  noble  gentleman.  I  am  proud  to  obey 
wHen  lie  commands!  He  has  said  to  me  that  I  am  to  be 
married,  and  does  he  not  know  what  is  best  for  me? 
Would  he  wish  to  bring  unhappiness  upon  his  Juliette  ? ' ' 

She  was  not  so  much  loyal  as  Loyalty  personified,  stand- 
ing there  defending  him ;  with  her  little  hand  keeping  down 
her  bursting 'heart  of  anguish,  and  salt  lakes  of  unshed 
tears  pent  up  behind  her  sorrowful  sapphire  eyes.  .  .  . 
Her  voice  broke  as  she  said  "his  Juliette,"  and  one  of  the 
Bawnes,  a  stately,  black-browed  girl,  answered,  speaking 
in  French: 

"He  would  not  if  he  is — what  you  have  described 
him!  .  .  .  But — unless  you  knew  of  this  before — it  is  so 
sudden.  ...  It  would  seem  to  argue  that  M.  le  Colonel 
was  thinking  more — you  will  not  be  offended! — of  the 
happiness  of  his  future  son-in-law  than  of  his  daugh- 
ter's  " 


50  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Non,  non,  non!"  She  made  an  emphatic  gesture  with 
her  little  hand,  and  shook  her  head  so  that  a  tear  fell  from 
her  lashes  on  the  bosom  of  her  black  school-dress,  "Dear 
Lady  Biddy — you  are  mistaken.  For — comprehend  you? 
— my  happiness  is  in  obeying  that  beloved  father,  always. 
For  me,  there  is  no  greater  joy.  .  .  .  And  his  letter  bears 
date  of  the  New  Year — three  days  since — behold  the  post- 
mark. It  is  the  custom  to  give  young  people  etrenncs  at 
that  season — my  father  bestows  on  me  a  husband,  and  I 
am — content!  See  you  well?" 

It  was  faulty  English,  yet  Juliette's  "See  you  well?" 
haunted  the  music-loving  ear. 

And  now  even  the  reserved  began  to  question,  while  the 
frankly  curious  waxed  importunate  concerning  the  date  of 
Mademoiselle  Bayard's  impending  departure,  the  name, 
rank  and  personal  appearance  of  the  mysterious  husband- 
elect,  the  number  and  uniform  of  his  regiment.  For,  of 
course,  he  was  certain  to  be  an  officer  of  Cavalry,  Dragoons, 
Lancers,  or  Cuirassiers.  That  he  must  be  handsome  went 
without  saying;  but  were  his  eyes  dark  or  light,  and  did  he 
wear  a  moustache  only,  or  sport  the  hirsute  ornament  in 
conjunction  with  an  imperial?  Beset  from  all  quar- 
ters, Juliette  was  beginning  to  lose  command  of  her- 
self, when  the  hour  of  two  struck  from  the  great  clock  in 
the  corridor. 

The  clang-clang  of  an  iron  bell  succeeded,  the  double 
doors  at  the  upper  end  of  the  Hall  rolled  backward, 
uniting  the  Great  and  the  Middle  Classes  in  the  religious 
exercise  that  opened  afternoon  School.  The  hymn  sung, 
the  brief  litany  chanted  to  an  accompaniment  played  on 
the  harmonium  by  a  mistress  in  the  purple  habit  and 
creamy  veil  of  the  choir-sisters,  another  nun  approached 
Juliette  and  whispered  in  her  ear. 

She  was  to  go  to  the  dormitory  and  pack  her  trunk, 
which  would  presently  be  brought  her  by  one  of  the  lay- 
sisters.  And  this  done,  she  was  free  to  spend  the  half- 
hour  previous  to  Benediction  in  the  parlor  with — 

The  name  was  lost  in  Juliette's  embrace  and  kiss  of 
gratitude.  She  was  usually  chary  of  caresses,  perhaps  she 
wished  to  hide  her  eyes. 

They  were  fairly  overflowing,  poor  eyes!  when  their 
owner  gained  the  solitude  of  her  white-draped  cubicle  in 


THE    MAN   OF    IRON  51 

the  Greats'  dormitory.  Once  the  curtains  fell  behind  her 
she  was  free  to  fall  upon  her  knees  beside  the  bed  and  sob 
there,  to  call  upon  Our  Lady  for  succor  and  pity,  to  rock 
herself  and  hug  her  bleeding  heart.  And  all  these  things 
Juliette  did,  until  the  dull  thump  of  felt  shoes  upon  the 
shining  boards  betokened  the  arrival  of  the  lay-sister, 
bearing  the  oilskin-covered  dress-basket,  disinterred  from 
some  below-stairs  repository,  which  had  to  be  filled  from 
the  locker,  dress-hooks,  and  drawers. 

Ten  minutes  had  been  devoured  in  grief,  forty  yet  re- 
mained for  packing.  A  lover  of  method  in  all  things, 
frugal  and  prudent  in  the  expenditure  of  resources  ("I  am 
sensible,  me!"},  Juliette  was  economical  of  time.  Tea 
minutes  might  be  spared  to  re-perusal  of  the  letter  that 
had  set  her  faith  in  that  dearest  father  rocking  like  a  palm 
in  tempest,  and  wrung  such  tears  of  anguish  from  the  heart 
that  worshiped  him. 

She  drew  the  bulky  envelope  from  its  pure  hiding-place, 
kissed  it,  and  moaned  a  little.  There  were  three  sheets  of 
thin  foreign  note,  flourished  over  in  a  big,  bold,  soldierly 
hand.  The  date  bore  evidence  that  the  letter  had  been 
penned  on  the  Eve  of  Saint  Sylvestre,  answering  to  our 
New  Year 's  Eve.  The  address  was : 

"Barracks  of  the  lllth  Regiment, 
"Mounted  Chasseurs  of  the  Imperial  Guard, 

"Versailles. 
"My  Daughter, 

"Of  news  thy  father  has  not  much  to  tell  thee  that  thou 
wouldst  find  of  the  most  interesting,  save  that  of  the  fash- 
ions prevailing  in  Paris  at  the  moment,  the  most  daring  and 
eccentric  is  the  little  hat  or  miniature  bonnet,  tilted  for* 
ward  upon  the  forehead  ~by  the  chignon,  and  spangled  with 
beetles,  dragon-flies,  and  other  brilliant  insects.  Jeweled 
birds,  yachts  in  full  sail,  or  baskets  of  flowers,  dangle  from 
the  ears  of  all  the  feminine  world! 

"The  Empress  is  as  beautiful  as  even  she  could  wish  to 
be.  I  saw  her  driving  a  pair  of  little  thoroughbred  mares 
in  the  low  park-phceton  yesterday  in  the  Bois,  near  the 
Rond  des  Cascades.  She  was  so  gracious  as  to  recognize  me 
— though  I  was  in  civilian  riding-dress — and  beckoned  me 
with  her  parasol-whip  from  the  line  of  equestrians  respect- 


52 

fully  mustered  on  the  left  side  of  the  road.  She  patted  the 
gray  Mustapha — thou  wilt  be  glad  thy>  horse  was  so  hon- 
ored!— and  asked  if  I  was  quite  recovered  of  the  wound 
I  received  at  Solferino, — proving  that  an  Imperial  memory 
can  be  conferred  with  the  hand  that  raises  to  Imperial' 
rank.  Later  on  I  met  Dumas,  and — at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  Laffitte — Baron  Rothschild  and  Cham,  the  caricatur- 
ist— and  there  thou  hast  a  resume  of  the  encounters  of  the 
day. 

"Do  political  matters  really  interest  theef  Learn,  then, 
a  new  Ministry  is  in  formation  by  M.  Emile  Ollivier — a 
'homogeneous  cabinet,'  is  to  be  drawn  chiefly  from  the  Left 
Center  in  the  Corps  Legislatif.  My  father's  friend,  M.  le 
General  Lebceuf,  Minister  of  War,  retains  the  post  he  held 
in  the  expired  Administration.  M.  le  Marechal  Vaillant 
continues  as  Minister  of  the  Emperor's  Household.  Hauss- 
mann  has  fallen!  his  ten  thousand  hands  will  no  longer 
scatter  gold  from  the  Imperial  Treasury.  The  last  an- 
nouncement emanating  from  the  Prefecture  of  the  Seine 
gave  notice  that  the  cemeteries  of  Mont-Parnasse,  Mont- 
martre,  Ivry,  and  others  are  to  be  seized  by\  the  munici- 
pality in  1871.  All  the  private  monuments  are  to  be  with- 
drawn before  the  first  of  April.  .  .  .  With  what  sorrow  of 
heart  these  tragic  removals  will  be  effected  thou  ivilt  realize, 
who  hast  so  often  accompanied  thy  father,  bearing  wreaths 
to  lay  upon  thy  grandmother's  tomb  at  Pcre  Lachaise. 
Pray  that  the  necessity  to  find  a  home  for  those  sacred, 
beloved  ashes  may  not  devolve  upon  us. 

"Thou  must  know  that  in  October,  during  the  man- 
euvers at  the  camp  of  Chalons,  a  new  and  terrible  weapon 
was  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  Imperial  army  of  France. 
It  is  the  Mitrailleuse,  conceived  by  the  brain  of  De  Reffye — 
an  invention  worthy*  to  rank  with  that  of  the  Chassepot 
rifle,  which  fulfilled  such  great  expectations  the  first  time 
the  weapon  was  used  in  action,  at  Mentana,  against  the! 
Garibaldians.  How  shall  I  describe  it?  I  will  say,  briefly, 
that  it  is  a  rifled,  breech-loading  gun  of  from  fourteen  to 
twenty-nine  barrels;  that  it  has  as  many  locks  as  barrels; 
that  it  can  be  transported  from  place  to  place  by  two  men, 
and  fired  by  one,  who  manipulates  a  lever,  sitting  upon  a 
saddle  attached  to  the  gun-carriage.  And  that  it  is  a  mill 
that  grinds — a  machine  that  hails — death  upon  an  enemy. 


THE    MAN    OF    IROX  53 

Armed  with  batteries  of  these  invincible  weapons,  the  march 
of  an  invading  army  would  be  irresistible! 

"Two  of  these  marvelous  guns  have  been  by  the  Imperial 
favor  bestowed  upon  our  regiment.  The  men  baptized 
them  in  wine  by  the  names  of  Didi  and  Bibi.  They  are 
treated  as  regimental  infants,  and  thrive  exceedingly 
well. 

"My  child,  whether  this  news  will  make  thee  sad  or  joy- 
ful it  must  be  that  Juliette  joins  her  father  here  at  Ver- 
sailles not  later  than  on  the  twentieth  of  the  month  of 
January.  Madame  la  Superieure  will  supply  thee  with 
funds  in  exchange  for  the  enclosed  note  of  credit  furnished 
me  by  my  bankers.  Purchase  thyself — on  arriving  in 
Paris — for  certainly  the  modes  of  London  will  never  con- 
tent a  taste  so  fastidious — some  fresh  and  charming  toilettes 
of  the  evening,  costumes  for  the  house,  theater  or  prom- 
enade, and  suitable  lingerie.  Last,  but  not  least,  bring  a 
marriage-robe,  crown  and  veil.  I  am  not  joking,  I  assure 
thee!  For  my  daughter  I  have  found  a  husband.  A 
yaung  man,  sincere,  upright,  honorable,  and  a  good  Cath- 
olic, whom  I  have  known  from  boyhood,  whom  my  child 
will  love  as  a  wife  should;  and  by  whom  she  will  be  adored 
and  cherished.  Thou  knoivest  Charles  Tes'sier,  the  son  of 
my  mother's  widowed  friend,  the  estimable  Madame  Tes- 
sier,  whom  we  have  visited  in  the  Rue  de  Provence,  Ver- 
sailles! Charles  has  succeeded  to  his  father's  large  busi- 
nesses at  Paris,  Lyons,  and  in  Belgium,  as  a  manufacturer 
of  woolen  dress-materials,  the  pattern  Ecossais,  so  much 
in  favor  with  8.M.  the  Empress  and  the  belles  of  the  Im- 
perial Court,  having  been  imported,  woven  and  supplied 
by  this  wise,  enterprising  and  energetic  young  man.  Who 
— but  it  will  be  for  his  wife  to  perceive  and  praise  his 
many  excellencies.  I  leave  thee  to  the  pleasant  task  of 
discovering  them. 

"My  Juliette,  if  so  much  of  thy  father  mingles  in  thy 
nature  that  of  all  careers  this  of  a  soldier  seems  to  thee  the 
noblest — if  the  pursuit  and  attainment  of  military'  glory — 
distinctions  won  upon  the  field  of  War,  appeal  to  thee — as 
Heaven  knows  they  have  to  me! — since  my  blood  first 
learned  to  thrill  at  the  roll  of  the  drum — and  leap  at  the 
sound  of  the  trumpet — if  thou  hast  pictured  in  thy  inno- 
cent mind — loved  in  thy  spotless  dreams — some  brave  and 


54  THE    MAX    OF    IRON 

noble  officer  chosen  for  thee  by  him  who  now  writes — tear 
the  picture! — forget  the  dream!  For  when  such  dreams 
"become  realities  they  are — how  often  rudely  shattered  by 
the  rush  and  shock  of  armies  meeting  in  the  blood-stained 
field  of  War! 

"My  dear,  War  is  a  monster  composed  of  flesh,  and  iron, 
and  steel,  that  like  the  dragon  or  chimera  of  classical  my- 
thology— devours  the  hopes  of  virgins  and  the  happiness 
of  matrons,  and  leaves  children  orphans  and  homes  heaps 
of  dust.  Thou  rememberest  thy\  grandmother?  She  had 
been  married  just  five  years  when  my  father  reddened)' 
with  his  heart's  blood  the  soil  of  Algeria.  Yet  when  T 
wished  to  follow  the  profession  of  arms  she  did  not  en~ 
deavor  to  dissuade  me.  She  hid  her  anguish  as  only 
mothers  can,  but  her  beloved  life  was  shortened  by  anxiety 
undergone  during  the  terrible  war  of  the  Crimea;  that  war 
so  protracted,  so  disastrous  to  our  brave  ally  of  England 
— so  fraught  with  loss  and  suffering  to  the  more  fortunate 
army  of  France.  And  that  was  not  the  only  blow  Fate 
dealt  me  while  I  served  as  aide-de-camp  upon  the  staff  of 
•M.  le  Marechal  Grand guerrier.  Thou  dost  not  know  as 
yet! — one  day  I  may  find  courage  to  tell  thee.  .  .  .  Even 
a  soldier  may\  shrink  from  baring  wounds  that  are  of  the 
soul. 

"My  daughter,  I  have  never  spoken  to  thee  of  thy 
mother.  .  .  .  The  time  has  arrived  when " 

The  sixteen  words  were  lined  out  by  a  heavy  stroke  of 
the  quill.  The  closing  sentences  were 

"In  the  event  of  War  abroad — taking  thy  father  from 
thee — perhaps  to  lay  his  bones  in  a  trench  hastily  dug  by 
peasants  in  some  foreign  province! — or  in  the  event  of  War 
at  home, — sudden,  unexpected — sweeping  as  a  cataclysm 
over  thy  native  soil,  thou  wilt  believe  me,  my  Juliette,  when 
I  tell  thee  this  marriage  would  be  absolutely  for  the  best! 
Living  or  dead,  for  me  to  know  thee  safe  and  cherished, 
here  at  Versailles  with  thy  husband  Charles  and  his  esti- 
mable mother,  would  be  happiness.  .  .  .  Wilt  thou  con- 
sent to  the  union  f  Wilt  thou  obey  thy  father,  who  loves 
thee  as  his  soul?  One  finds  this  a  scrawl  which  will  prove 
difficult  to  decipher.  As  thou  knowest,  I  am  a  better 
artist  with  the  sword  than  with  the  pen. 

"Written  here  at  my  new  quarters,  which  comprise  a 
sleeping  chamber  and  boudoir  elegantly  furnished,  suit- 


THE    MAN    OF,   IRON  55 

able  for  a  young  lady  of  refinement;  and  a  little  kitchen, 
full  of  pots  and  bright  pans. 

"Thy  father, 

"  HENRI- ANTOINE- ALBERT  DE  BAYAED, 
"Colonel  Commandant." 


VIII 

WILL  it  not  be  admitted  that  a  letter  such  as  this  was 
calculated  to  cause  a  flutter  of  agitation  in  the  meekest 
feminine  bosom?  To  be  recalled  from  School  before  the 
completion  of  the  tiresome  process  technically  known  as 
"finishing,"  that  was  matter  for  rejoicing.  The  little  bed- 
room-boudoir in  the  Colonel's  quarters  at  the  Cavalry 
Barracks,  "elegantly  furnished,  suitable  for  a  young  lady 
of  refinement,"  presented  an  alluring  picture,  the  tiny 
kitchen,  "full  of  pots  and  bright  pans,"  charmed.  .  .  . 

For  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard,  going  back  to  her  Colonel 
after  two  years'  absence,  laden  as  the  working-bee  with 
the  honey  of  accomplishments  and  the  well-kneaded  wax 
of  useful  knowledge,  promised  herself  that  it  should  not 
be  long  before  her  idol  should  be  convinced  by  practical 
demonstration  that  his  Juliette  had  not  forgotten  how  to 
cook.  Irish  stew,  saddle-of-mutton  with  onion-sauce,  pan- 
cakes, Scotch  collops,  English  plum-pudding  and  mince- 
pies  had  been  added  to  her  lengthy  list  of  recipes,  by  grace 
of  the  Convent  cook,  Sister  Boniface,  who  had  permitted 
the  ardent  amateur  to  experiment  in  a  second  kitchen, 
used  in  hot  weather,  abutting  on  the  garden,  and  not 
regarded  as  a  portion  of  the  nuns'  enclosure. 

To  return,  and  resume  the  old  dear  life  of  companion- 
ship, how  sweetly  welcome  had  been  the  summons.  But 
nothing  could  disguise  the  taste  of  the  powder  that  came 
after  the  jam. 

You  are  to  conceive  the  struggle  in  Juliette's  faithful 
heart  between  obedience  and  anger.  Marry,  my  faith! 
yes!  Every  sensible  young  girl  naturally  expected  to  be 
married ;  but  a  husband  approved  of  by  oneself,  if  selected 
by  one's  father — that  was  what  one  had  had  reason  to 
expect. 

And  this  Charles,  eulogized  as  wise,  sensible,  far-seeing, 


56  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

and  business-like.  Were  these  qualities,  though  naturally 
desirable  in  the  estimation  of  a  father-in-law,  attributes 
that  weighed  down  the  scale  in  the  opinion  of  a  bride? 
Had  one  ever  beheld  him?  She  shut  her  eyes  and  sum- 
moned up  all  the  masculine  faces  in  her  gallery  of  mental 
portraits,  dismissing  one  after  the  other  with  no's,  and 
no 's,  and  no 's !  .  .  .  Was  it  not  horrible  to  have  to  admit 
even  to  oneself  that  one  had  not  the  faintest  recollection 
of  ever  having  seen  or  spoken  to  him?  Madame  Tessier 
she  remembered  well  as  a  little,  stout,  very  gentille  and 
amiable,  elderly  lady,  whom  she  had  visited  with  M.  le 
Colonel,  who  had  embraced  one  cordially,  and  insisted  on 
one's  partaking — immediately  and  at  great  length — of  a 
collation  of  sandwiches,  fruit,  cakes,  and  syrups;  excellent 
— and  to  a  hungry  school-girl,  welcome  at  any  hour  of  the 
day.  What  more  ?  .  .  .  Ah,  yes !  Madame  had  much  de- 
plored Charles's  absence,  possibly  at  Lyons  or  in  Belgium. 
Further,  Madame  had  remarked  to  M.  le  Colonel: 

"My  friend,  your  Juliette  is  the  image  of  her  belored 
grandmother ! ' ' 

"Will  nobody  ever  say  that  I  am  like  my  mother?" 
Juliette  had  gaily  cried.  And  with  a  strange  stiff  smile, 
the  Colonel  had  answered  for  Madame  Tessier, — who  at 
that  juncture  had  opportunely  upset  a  dish  of  little  sugar- 
cakes. 

"There  have  been  moments,  my  child,  when  I  have" — 
he  coughed  rather  awkwardly  for  M.  le  Colonel — "antici- 
pated that  a  resemblance  might  exist." 

Could  he  have  been  on  the  verge  of  saying  "feared," 
and  substituted  the  other  word  at  the  last  moment  ?  Such 
an  idea  was  ridiculous,  yet  it  had  occurred  to  Juliette. 

To  questions  on  the  subject  of  the  faintly  remembered 
mother  the  grandmother  had  been  impervious.  The  Colo- 
nel had  always  answered — yet  with  palpable  reti- 
cence. ...  » 

"You  have  no  mother,  my  little  Juliette;  she  was  taken 
from  us,  my  child,  while  I  was  absent  with  the  Army  in  the 
Crimea,"  or  "She  left  us,  while  yet  I  was  detained  in 
Eastern  Russia,  serving  as  aide  upon  the  staff  of  M.  le 
Marechal  Grandguerrier.  ...  It  is  true,  she  was  both 
good  and  beautiful  when  I  married  her!  Now  run  and 
play ! ' '  Or,  in  later  years :  ' '  Now  come  and  read  to  me ! " 
or  "Walk  with  me,"  or  "Ride  with  me,"  or  "Now 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  57 

tell  me  how  and  where  thou  didst  learn  to  turn  out  such 
savory  dishes  with  those  tiny  pattes  de  mouche  of  thine? 
Nowhere  is  there  a  chef  whose  choicest  efforts  can  com- 
pare with  my  Juliette's.  And  I  have  dined  with  the  Em- 
peror— and  with  Milord  Hertford  at  Bagatelle — and  with 
Consul-General  Baron  Rothschild — and — parole  d'hon- 
neur! — I  have  told  them  so!" 

And  all  the  time  M.  le  Colonel  had  been  keeping  back 
something.  .  .  .  "Was  it  not  strange,  thought  Juliette,  that, 
while  upon  the  anniversary  of  the  Jour  des  Mort  Mass  had 
invariably  been  offered  for  all  deceased  relatives  of  the 
De  Bayard  family,  the  actual  date  of  the  death  of  one  so 
young  and  beautiful  had  never  been  marked  with  special 
solemnity. 

Could  it  be  that  the  lost  mother  was  not  dead,  but 
living !  Oh,  but  impossible !  .  .  .  And  yet — once  awak- 
ened, the  doubt  would  never  sleep  again.  .  .  . 

Did  ever  a  girl  receive  such  a  letter?  It  was  fuller  of 
darts  than  even  the  fabled  porcupine.  It  awakened  sting- 
ing doubts  of  the  kindness  of  the  gentlest  and  tenderest  of 
fathers.  "Tear  the  picture! — forget  the  dream!"  he  had 
said.  Ah,  my  Heaven !  what  young  girl  cherishes  not  such 
images — such  visions!  .  .  .  Juliette  wondered  sorrow- 
fully. Sitting  on  her  school  locker,  lost  in  thought,  her 
elbows  on  her  knees,  her  little  pointed  chin  cupped  in  the 
slender  hands,  you  saw  her  as  a  haggard,  weary  little 
creature.  For  while  joy  made  of  Juliette  a  living  rainbow, 
grief  transformed  her  to  the  wan  and  rigid  nymph  that 
droops  above  a  classic  urn  upon  a  mourning  cameo;  and 
anxiety  or  suspense  or  remorse  of  soul  set  a  changeling  in 
her  place,  wizened  her,  pinched  her,  struck  her  prema- 
turely old. 

She  might — to  employ  hyperbole — have  been  sitting  on 
her  locker  until  the  present  hour,  had  not  her  sad  eyes 
lighted  upon  a  colored  photograph  of  M.  le  Colonel  in  full 
military  harness  and  equipment,  contained  in  a  little  ivory 
frame  fastened  by  a  safety-pin  to  one  of  the  starched  white 
dimity  curtains  that  imparted  an  air  of  select  privacy  to 
the  little  white-covered  dormitory  bed. 

You  are  to  behold  Juliette's  father — per  medium  of  this 
pen-portrait — and  would  that  you  might  have  heard  his 
cordial  voice,  and  pressed  his  living  hand.  .  .  .  Con- 


58  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

ceive  him  as  a  little  man;  and  somewhat  stout  and 
paunchy;  you  would  never  have  dared  to  term  him  so  in 
the  presence  of  Juliette.  And  yet  so  manly,  soldierlike  and 
ingratiating  was  the  boldly-featured  face,  with  its  brave 
eyes,  curled  moustache  and  imperial;  the  fur  talpack  with 
the  green  and  scarlet  plume  and  the  red  Hussar  bag,  was 
worn  with  such  an  air;  the  dolman  of  fine  green  cloth,  laced 
and  corded  with  heavy  galons  of  silver  and  faced  with  the 
brilliant  red  of  his  silver-striped  pantaloons,  fitted  his  com- 
pact round  person  with  such  creaseless  tightness ;  his  silver- 
striped  ceinture,  belts  and  buckles  were  so  point-device; 
his  spurred  Hessian  boots  graced  such  neat  small  feet ;  his 
right  hand  rested  on  his  hip,  his  left  upon  the  hilt  of  his 
long  saber,  with  so  pleasant  a  grace,  that  you  could  not 
but  warm  to  this  picture  of  a  cavalry  commander. 

His  daughter  melted  even  as  she  gazed.  The  generous 
soul,  once  wrought  to  the  pitch  of  heroism,  piles  sacrifice 
on  sacrifice.  She  had  meant  to  temporize,  but  she  would 
not  do  so  now.  She  began  to  comprehend,  as  stray  sen- 
tences of  the  father's  letter  floated  back,  that  his  mood  had 
been  sorrowful  when  he  wrote  it;  and  that  those  wounds 
of  the  soul  he  spoke  of  had  been  bleeding,  though  hidden 
from  his  daughter,  many  a  year.  .  .  .  He  was  never  senti- 
mental; that  sentence  about  laying  his  bones  in  a  trench 
hastily  dug  by  peasants  in  a  foreign  province  had  been 
struck  from  the  steel  of  his  nature  by  some  flint  hurled 
from  the  sling  of  Fate.  The  words  that  followed,  picturing 
War, — sudden,  unexpected,  sweeping  as  a  cataclysm  over 
the  country, — had  the  solemnity  of  deep  organ-notes.  And 
the  rushing  tenderness  in  the  words,  "Living  or  dead,  to 
know  thee  safe  and  cherished!"  thrilled,  and  the  dignity 
of  the  entreaty  touched  and  conquered:  "Wilt  thou  obey 
thy  father,  who  loves  thee  as  his  soul?  .  .  ." 

You  saw  light  and  warmth  and  youth  and  loveliness  vis- 
ibly flowing  back  into  her  as  she  looked  at  the  picture.  The 
witches'  changeling  fled,  a  christened  maiden  remained 
in  her  place.  Words  came  to  the  lips  that  had  been  dumb, 
dews  of  tenderness  bathed  the  eyes  that  had  been  dry  as 
those  of  a  sandstone  statue  in  the  Theban  desert.  .  .  . 

"Dearest — beloved — best!  .  .  .  Oh !  shame  that  I  should 
have  dreamed  of  doubting  you !  .  .  .  There  is  some  great 
reason  for  this  decision — something  terrible  behind  this 
haste  of  yours.  What,  I  may  not  know  now! — one  day 


59 

all  will  be  explained  to  me!  ...  Until  then" — she  rose 
and  kissed  the  portrait — "until  then  I  will  trust  you — 
who  have  never  deceived  me.  ...  I  will  write  to  you  as 
you  would  wish  me  to  this  very  night.  Now  I  must  pack, 
and  then  go  down  to  Monica.  .  .  .  How  to  answer  if  she 
should  question!  .  .  .  but  no,  she  never  will!" 

Dismissing  the  phantom  of  Charles,  faceless  and  bodiless, 
but  none  the  less  terrible,  she  flew  at  the  locker — pulled 
out  the  three  drawers — stripped  the  row  of  regulation 
dress-pegs.  Brushing,  smoothing,  and  folding,  she  even 
sang  as  she  worked.  .  .  .  Presently  a  bell  rang  twice.  It 
was  yet  vibrating  where  it  hung,  on  the  passage-landing 
at  the  dormitory  stair-head,  when  Juliette  passed  on  her 
way  to  the  guest-parlor.  Monica  was  waiting  there. 


IX 

A  TALL  slight  figure  in  the  plain  black,  tight-fitting  gown 
of  a  novice,  made  with  a  little  cape  covering  the  upper  arm. 
A  sweet  plain  face  with  eyes  of  hazel  brown,  framed  in  a 
close  white  cap  with  three  rows  of  gophered  frills,  and 
there  you  have  Monica,  the  chosen  friend  of  the  fiery 
Juliette. 

' '  She  has  not  three  ideas !  How  can  you  think  so  much 
of  her  ? "  a  jealous  rival  is  reported  to  have  said. 

Juliette  retorted  with  a  lightning  riposte: 

' '  Possibly  no  more  than  three,  but  they  are  good  ones ! ' ' 
She  marked  them  off  on  her  tiny  fingers.  "First,  to  serve 
God.  .  .  .  Again, — to  serve  her  friends.  .  .  .  Once  more — 
to  help  her  enemies !  .  .  .  If  not,  how  is  it  that  she  spent 
two  hours  yesterday,  working  with  you  at  that  F  major 
fugue  in  Bach's  Book  of  Forty-eight?  .  .  .  Has  not 
that  stopped  you  the  whistle?  ...  I  have  eyes  in  my 
head,  see  you  well?  Pour  tout  dire — you  are  an  ingrate, 
you!" 

"See  you  well!"  could  be  a  slogan  on  occasion,  a  blood- 
chilling  note  heralding  the  shock  of  battle.  But  it  came 
now  in  the  softest  of  dove-notes,  as  they  hurried  to  meet 
each  other,  clasped  hands,  and  kissed. 

' '  Dear  one,  I  am  so  glad !  See  you  well,  we  have  a  whole 
half-hour  to  spend  together.  .  .  .  And  there  is  so  much 


60  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

to  tell  you  that  I  know  not  where  to  begin."  .  .  .  She 
drew  back  frowning  a  little,  vexed  that  Monica  was  not 
alone.  ' '  I  entreat  your  pardon !  .  .  .  I  did  not  know  you 
entertained  a  visitor.  ...  It  is  best  that  I  retire.  .  .  . 
I  fear  I  am.  .  .  .  how  do  you  say?  .  .  .  very  much  in  the 
road!" 

Monica  explained,  holding  the  big  red  hand  of  an 
awkward  young  man  in  a  shaggy  greatcoat. 

' '  You  are  not  in  the  way,  dear — and  this  is  not  a  visitor ! 
Let  me  introduce  my  brother,  of  whom  you  have  heard. 
Caro,  this  is  my  friend,  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard." 

The  shaggy  young  man,  blushing  savagely  to  the  tips  of 
his  ears  and  the  roots  of  his  flaming  hair,  made  a  clumsy 
inclination,  and  offered  the  large  red  paw  to  Mademoiselle, 
who  gravely  inspected  it,  drawing  down  her  upper  lip, 
folding  her  own  infinitesimal  hands  before  her  narrow 
waist,  but  made  no  movement  to  take  it. 

"He  has  angry  eyes,  with  curious  amber  taches  in 
them,  ..."  she  thought.  "And  he  looks  dusty  as  a  voy- 
ager after  a  long  travel.  .  .  .  Not  bien  tenu  as  a  gentle- 
man should  be.  ...  Living  with  Germans  in  Germany — 
he  has  become  indifferent  to  the  petits  soins  of  the  toilet. 
I  would  put  the  hand  in  the  fire  rather  than  tell  Monica ! — 
but,  for  me,  I  find  him  horrible.  What  is  he  saying?  One 
would  expect  from  a  being  so  clumsy  and  so  shaggy,  not 
merely  speech,  but  a  roar!" 

Yet  the  voice  was  fresh  and  rather  pleasant,  as  he  re- 
plied to  Monica's  interested  questions.  Had  he  had  a  good 
journey?  .  .  .  How  long  had  he  been  in  London?  .  .  . 
Three  days,  and  never  let  her  know?  .  .  .  Why  not?  .  .  . 
Had  he  dined  early,  or  lunched,  and  if  not — he  had  been 
understood  to  mumble  a  negative, — would  he  not  have 
something  now?  Tea  and  sandwiches — Sister  Boniface 
would  cut  the  latter  in  a  minute.  It  was  only  three  o  'clock. 
Benediction  wasn't  until  four — there  would  be  heaps  of 
time.  .  .  . 

The  mumbled  refusals  grew  faint.  Monica  smiled  her 
triumph.  Intent  on  hospitality  she  hurried  out  of  the 
parlor,  saying  with  a  backward  glance,  and  a  smile  halved 
between  sulky  Carolan  and  somber  Juliette:  "Sit  down! — 
talk  to  each  other  ...  I  '11  soon  be  back  again !  .  .  . " 

But  the  sound  of  the  closing  door  smote  the  shaggy 
youth  with  a  dumb  palsy  and  transformed  Mademoiselle 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  61 

de  Bayard  into  the  semblance  of  a  large  mechanical  doll 
in  black  merino. 

"Stiff,  pale,  proud  little  creature!"  Carolan  mentally 
termed  her.  It  occurred  to  him  that,  attired  in  a  brocade 
Court  dress  over  a  hooped  farthingale,  crowned  with  a  wig 
of  stiffened  ringlets  adorned  with  lace  and  ribbons  and 
diamond  powder,  with  a  fan  in  one  of  those  rigid  little 
hands,  she  might  have  sat  to  Velasquez  as  a  child  Infanta. 
Or,  upholstered  and  decked  in  Moorish  finery,  posed  as 
one  of  the  female  midgets  in  the  royal  group  of  the  Fam- 
ilia.  Whatever  Velasquez  might  have  thought,  she  was 
priggish,  prudish,  dull,  doltish.  .  .  .  Obstinate,  too,  with 
that  long,  deeply-channeled  upper  lip.  And  how  persist- 
ently she  kept  those  long,  thick,  uncurling  lashes  down. 
One  wondered  rather  what  might  be  the  color  of  the  eyes 
so  concealed  ?  Black  or  brown  ?  Or — one  had  had  a  gleam 
of  blue  when  for  an  instant  she  had  looked  at  one.  Nobody 
cared — but  perhaps  they  were  blue? 

She  made  no  movement  to  sit  down,  nor  did  she  indicate 
a  desire  that  he  should  seat  himself.  She  flickered  her 
somber  eyelids  for  an  instant,  and  the  eyes  seemed  inky- 
black.  Burnt  holes  in  a  blanket,  the  observer  brutally 
termed  them,  lifting  his  mental  gaze  to  the  china-blue 
orbs  of  his  ideal,  the  colossal  Britomart-Kriemhilde-Briin- 
hilde-Isolde. 

In  contempt  of  the  prim  puppet  in  the  black  merino 
he  found  himself  adding  inches  to  his  loved  one's  height. 
Or  perhaps  it  was  to  keep  himself  from  madly  shouting  to 
Monica  to  tell  them  to  hurry  up  with  that  tray.  .  .  . 

When  you  have  pawned  your  jacket  and  waistcoat  for 
two-and-eightpence  early  on  Wednesday,  and  have  dined 
on  a  sausage  and  mashed  for  threepence,  supped  on  a 
drink  of  water  from  a  pump  in  a  livery -stable  yard.  .  .  . 
When  the  bed  at  a  coffee-house  has  cost  you  a  shilling, 
breakfast  of  burned-bread  coffee  and  roll,  threepence, 
and  you  have  spent  twopence  on  a  paper  collar,  your 
remaining  capital  stands  at  a  shilling,  and  by  three  o'clock 
on  Thursday,  if  you  have  not  ventured  to  break  into  this, 
you  are  beginning  to  return  to  the  savage  of  the  Earlier 
Stone  Age.  Who,  supposing  his  neighbor  to  be  gnawing 
a  lump  of  gristle  wrhen  his  own  stomach  was  clamorous, 
dropped  in  upon  the  banquet  armed  with  a  flint  axe,  and 
possessed  himself  of  the  coveted  bonne-douche. 


62  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

P.  C.  Breagh  was  frankly  astonished  at  the  savage 
voracity  of  his  own  impulses.  It  did  not  occur  to  him 
that  his  nerves — he  had  always  jeered  at  men  who  had 
talked  of  their  nerves — had  sustained  a  tremendous  shock, 
and  that  this  was  the  inevitable  reaction.  His  laboriously 
crammed  scientific  knowledge  had  never  yet  been  called 
upon  to  account  for  his  own  bodily  sensations — unless  in 
the  case  of  a  jammer  headache — diagnosed  as  the  result  of 
too  many  beers  overnight.  At  any  rate  he  was  not  hungry 
now, — and  the  room  with  its  stiff  row  of  chairs,  its  high- 
molded  ceiling,  its  dingy  blue  distempered  walls,  hung 
with  engravings  of  Popes  and  Cardinals,  Roman  views, 
and  Scriptural  oil-paintings,  began  to  heave  and  surge 
like  the  decks  of  the  evil-smelling,  second-rate  passenger- 
steamer  that  had  brought  him  third-class  from  Ostend. 
He  thought  of  that  old  man  with  the  shattered  skull 
sprawling  among  his  bloody  papers,  and  knew  that  in 
another  moment  he  should — horror  of  horrors !  despite  the 
presence  of  yonder  speechless  Immobility  in  the  fiddle- 
bodied  black  frock  and  medaled  blue  neck  ribbon — either 
faint  or  be  violently  sick. 

He  chose  the  first  alternative,  for  the  whole  room,  with 
its  faded  gilt  mirrors,  its  album-laden  tables,  its  formal 
rows  of  chairs  skirting  the  wainscot,  the  little  mats  in 
front  of  them,  and  the  beeswaxed  floor  on  which  with 
growing  difficulty  he  maintained  a  perpendicular  position, 
melted  away  from  about  and  from  under  him,  letting  him 
sink  down,  down  .  .  .  into  bottomless,  boundless  abysses 
of  intangible  gray  mist.  .  .  . 

Out  of  which,  after  an  interval  of  a  hundred  years  or 
three  minutes,  he  emerged  sufficiently  to  say  in  a  husky 
whisper : 

"  It 's  nothing !    I  'm  all ' ' 

And  then  be  swallowed  up  again.  Coming  to  the  surface 
in  another  jeon  or  so  to  ask,  with  a  wince  of  pain : 

"Did  the  old  fellow  shoot  me  in  the  head?  It — hurts 
like  the  dickens!" 

And  to  receive  the  answer  in  a  cool  little  silvery  voice 
like  the  playing  of  a  fountain  in  a  mossy  basin  at  the  end 
of  a  green  alley,  or  the  trickle  of  a  brook  through  lush 
grasses  and  forget-me-not  beds. 

"You  knocked  the  floor  with  it  when  you  made  to  fall 
.so  suddenly!"  Something  cool  and  light  touched  his 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  63 

aching  forehead,  and  the  voice  went  on  again:  "It  does 
not  bleed,  no !  but  there  will  certainly  be  one  big  bump 
there!" 

"One  bump.  .  .  .  Feels  like  one-and-twenty ! "  P.  C. 
Breagh  muttered,  adding,  with  a  heave  and  struggle  that 
brought  him  into  a  sitting  posture:  "Help  me  up,  who- 
ever you  are !  .  .  .  Not  all  at  once.  .  .  .  Donnerwetter! 
how  giddy  I  am!  Try  again  in  a  minute!  .  .  .  Here! 
.  .  .  Give  me  hold  of  your  fist ! ' ' 

The  silvery  voice  said,  with  a  liquid  tremble  in  it  that 
might  have  been  laughter  or  shyness : 

"But  I  do  not  comprehend — feesth!  Permit  that  I 
offer  you  the  hand.  ...  I  am  so  very  strong,  me ! ' ' 

"Strong,  eh?"  P.  C.  Breagh  said  vacantly,  being  still 
absorbed  in  the  effort  to  remember  where  he  was.  He  was 
certainly  sitting  up  on  a  shiny,  cold  and  slippery  floor, 
leaning  back  against  something  warm  and  fragrant  and 
soft,  but  he  had  not  the  least  notion  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
support  afforded  him,  nor  did  he  associate  the  ownership 
of  the  voice  with  any  person  previously  met. 

"Strong!  .  .  ."he  repeated,  and  yawned,  and  could  not 
leave  off  yawning.  "Physical  exhaustion,  fatigue,  and 
lack  of  food,"  he  mentally  diagnosed,  and  found  that,  when 
his  eyes  had  left  off  blinking  and  watering,  the  room  was 
coming  back.  There  were  the  Popes,  Cardinals,  and  views 
of  Roman  Basilicas ;  there  the  oil-paintings  of  sacred  sub- 
jects— there  the  dingy  gilt  mirrors,  the  round  center- 
table  with  books  upon  it,  the  oval  one  with  an  inkstand 
and  nothing  more, — the  formal  rows  of  chairs,  instantly 
reviving  the  impression  of  a  Convent  parlor  .  .  .  and 
stimulating  him  to  rise,  after  some  slips  and  sprawls  and 
flounders,  and  stand  upright  on  the  beeswaxed  boards, 
smiling  rather  stupidly  and  clutching  something  small  and 
soft  and  sentient,  for  it  fluttered  in  his  big  inclosing  palm 
as  a  captive  titmouse  or  robin  might  have  done.  .  .  . 
Donnerwetter!  it  was  the  hand  whose  aid  he  had  asked  a 
moment  before  in  his  extremity.  ...  A  child's.  .  „  . 
No! — a  girl's.  .  .  .  Who  was  the  girl?  .  .  . 

The  truth  burst  on  him  then  that  it  was  to  the  mechanical 
doll,  the  stiff,  pale,  proud,  absurd  little  creature,  the  In- 
fanta of  the  drooping  eyelids,  the  Moorish  pigmy,  he  owed 
the  help  the  little  hand  had  given.  The  silvery,  sweet  voice 
was  hers,  and  against  her  he  had  leaned  as  he  sat  on  the 


64  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

floor  gathering  in  his  scattered  faculties.  .  .  .  The  light 
touch  that  had  visited  his  aching  forehead,  when  she  had 
said  it  did  not  bleed,  had  soothed  him  like  the  contact  of 
a  flower.  The  sweetness  of  the  voice  was  in  his  ears 
again.  .  .  . 

' '  Will  you  not  sit  down  ?  You  are  not  strong,  and  should 
manage  your  forces.  A  gentleman  to  faint  like  that  I  have 
never  before  seen!  Your  sister  will  be  grieved  that 
you " 

"You  are  not  to  tell  her!"  He  dropped  heavily  into 
the  chair  she  had  brought,  and  made  a  feebly-emphatic 
blow  at  the  table  near  which  she  had  set  it.  "Promise 
me !  .  .  .  I — I  must  ask  you  to  be  good  enough.  .  .  .  Who 
has  gone  and  unbuttoned  my  coat?" 


THE  pitiable  secret  the  shaggy  garment  had  concealed,  the 
absence  of  jacket  and  waistcoat,  bringing  his  hidden 
poverty  into  horrible  relief,  the  dinginess  of  the  shirt  of 
two  days'  wear,  the  deceptive  nature  of  the  paper  collar 
purchased  at  an  outlay  of  twopence,  had  been  revealed 
by  some  traitorous  hand  during  his  unguarded  weakness 
of  a  moment  back.  The  color  rushed  back  to  his  haggard 
young  face  in  flood,  as  with  shaky  fingers  he  wedded  the 
big  horn  buttons  to  their  buttonholes,  and  felt  about  his 
neck  to  find  it  wet.  .  .  .  Juliette  had  said  to  herself  that 
he  had  angry  eyes.  They  were  tigerish  as  they  flamed  at 
her.  Then  the  yellow  flame  died  out  of  them  and  they 
were  nothing  but  gray  and  miserable.  He  said  brokenly: 

"I — beg  your  pardon!  I  must  seem  the  last  thing  out 
in  the  way  of  a  brute  to  you.  I  had — fainted  or  some- 
thing!— I've  been  through  a  lot  of  late!  And  you  meant 
to — be  kind,  I'm  sure.  ..." 

He  had  thought  her  a  mere  child  in  size,  but  her  personal 
dignity  lent  her  height  and  presence.  Her  great  eyes  met 
his  full,  and  they  were  deeply  blue  as  scillas  in  May,  with 
great  black  pupils  and  velvety-black  bands  about  the  irises. 
She  said  in  an  icy  little  voice: 

"Sir,  it  is  customary  in  these  days  to  instruct  young 
ladies  in  the  knowledge  of  imparting  medical  aid  to  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  65 

sick  or  wounded.  A  moment  since  I  saw  you  fall  to  the 
floor!  I  lanced  myself  to  your  side! — I  debuttoned  your 
paletot — sprinkled  on  your  forehead  water  from  that  vase 
upon  the  table," — she  indicated  the  ornament  with  an  in- 
finitesimal forefinger, — "and  in  a  few  minutes  I  have  the 
relief  to  behold  you  sufficiently  recovered  to  demand  if  a 
man  has  shooted  you?  .  .  .  Naturally,  I  do  not  mean  to 
be  unkind !  But  the  promise  not  to  speak  of  this  to  Made- 
moiselle, your  sister,  see  you  well? — I  cannot  give  it! 
Young  ladies" — there  was  an  appalling  stateliness  about 
the  tone  and  manner  of  this  delivery,  worthy  of  a  mistress 
of  deportment — "young  ladies  do  not  have  secrets  with 
strange  young  gentlemen !  And  Monica  is  my  dear  friend, 
not  you!" 

"Then  if  she  is  so  much  a  friend  of  yours,  you  would 
wish  to  spare  her  knowledge  of  things  certain  to  shock 
and  grieve  her.  You  would  not  like  to  have  her  anxious 
and  worried  about  what  she  couldn't  help,  would  you?" 
His  eyes  constrained  and  besought.  His  voice  was  humbly 
entreating.  .  .  . 

Juliette  recognized  the  cunning  in  this  appeal.  She 
lowered  her  little  pointed  chin  and  leveled  her  thick 
straight  eyelashes  at  the  speaker.  "Yes!"  the  chin  said: 
"No!"  the  eyelashes  replied.  Thus  encouraged,  P.  C. 
Breagh  had  an  inspiration. 

"But  if  I  trust  you! — you  look  as  if  you  could  be 
trusted.  ..." 

From  her  little  neck  in  its  plain  white  frill  to  the  cloud 
of  dusky  hair  that  crowned  her,  she  flushed  rosy  as  Alpine 
snows  at  sunset.  Did  he  mean  to  insult,  or  ingratiate,  this 
overbearing,  shaggy  youth?  She  said,  with  delicate  re- 
proof, completely  lost  upon  his  bluntness : 

"My  father  has  honored  me  with  his  confidence,  as  long 
as  I  can  remember,  sir. ' ' 

"Then  I'll  risk  mine  with  you!"  said  P.  C.  Breagh. 

"Not  risk!"  She  had  lost  her  glow,  the  sapphires  of 
her  eyes  were  shadowed  by  the  blackness  of  the  lowered 
lashes.  "Do  not  say  risk,  for  that  is  to  gamble.  See 
you — I  will  be  trusted  absolutely,  or  I  will  not  be  trusted 
at  all!" 

He  understood,  in  part,  that  he  had  wounded,  and  awk- 
wardly begged  her  pardon,  ending:  "And  show  that  you 
forgive  me  by  letting  me  tell  you  that  I  wouldn't  have  my 


66  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

sister  know,  for  the  world!"  He  got  up  and  went  to  one 
of  the  white-curtained,  ground-glass-filled  windows,  that 
masked  the  outlook  upon  Kensington  Square,  and  said  still 
more  awkwardly: 

"You  see — you  must  have  already  seen  from  my  togs — 
that  I  am  a  beggar.  I  came  back  from  Germany  three 
days  ago  to  find  myself  one.  I  was  to  receive  a  fortune 
from  the  hands  of  trustees,  and  I  found  that  their  firm 
had  gone  bankrupt.  The  elder  partner  had  committed  sui- 
cide— the  younger  had  shot  the  moon.  My  thousands  in 
his  pockets ! ' '  He  ground  his  teeth.  ' '  And  if  I  live — and 
ever  meet  that  fellow ! — he  '11  pay  me  in  inches  of  skin ! ' ' 

She  said,  and  the  silvern  voice  had  the  sweetness  of 
Cordelia 's : 

"I  am  so  very  sorry!  Could  you  not  prevail  upon  this 
dishonest  gentleman  to  restore  to  you  your  property?" 

P.  C.  Breagh  said,  with  a  flash  of  white  teeth  in  his  blunt- 
featured  freckled  face: 

"I  might,  if  he  had  been  considerate  enough  to  mention 
where  I  could  find  him!  .  .  .  Meanwhile  ..."  He 
shrugged  his  strong  young  shoulders  in  rather  a  despon- 
dent way. 

"Meanwhile  you  are  without  a  home  .  .  .  and  without 
money  ? ' ' 

He  nodded,  biting  fiercely  on  his  jutting  underlip. 
"Just  now!    But  by-and-by " 

She  persisted. 

"Without  money  and — starving!  Surely,  starving!  and 
that  was  why  you  fainted!  .  .  .  And  I,  mon  Dieu! — I 
have  been  blind  and  stupid.  ...  Je  ne  me  doutais  de  rien! 
Forgive  me,  I  beg  of  you ! ' ' 

Her  small  face  was  all  white  and  pinched  and  working. 
Sobs  choked  her  voice;  she  struck  her  little  bosom — she 
wrung  the  tiny  hands  in  anguish.  .  .  .  And  it  was  all 
real.  You  could  not  doubt  Juliette's  sincerity.  And 
though  his  manhood  was  sufficiently  new  to  revolt  at  com- 
miseration, still,  it  was  not  unpleasant  to  know  that  one's 
misfortunes  had  pierced  the  bucklered  pride  of  the  little 
Infanta,  and  wrung  tears  from  the  most  wonderful  eyes 
he  had  ever  seen.  And  what  was  she  saying? 

' '  Monsieur  Breagh,  it  is  a  misfortune  of  the  most  grand 
that  you  are  a  man  and  I  a  woman !  Otherwise  it  would  be 
so  easy  to  say  to  you  this.  .  .  .  Me,  I  am  for  the  moment 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  67 

rich.  I  could — if  you  would  accord  me  the  permission? — 
relieve  these  pressing  necessities.  .  .  .  Let  me  know  where 
a  letter  will  readily  find  you.  .  .  .  Do  not,  I  entreat  you, 
be  angry  that  I  ask  this!" 

But  he  was  angry.  His  broad  stripe  of  meeting  red 
eyebrows  came  loweringly  down  over  eyes  that  had  the 
tigerish  flame  in  them.  His  face  burned  and  he  clenched 
his  hands  until  the  knuckles  showed  out  white  upon  their 
sunburned  backs.  He  tried  to  speak  and  could  not,  so 
choking  was  his  indignation.  To  be  asked  to  borrow  from 
a  girl — his  sister's  schoolmate,  added  one  last  dash  of 
wormwood  to  the  brimming  cup  of  bitterness.  Unlucky  P. 
C.  Breagh! 

"I'm  uncommonly  obliged,  but  decent  men — in  this 
country — don't  do  that  sort  of  thing!  Even  Frenchmen 
might  call  it  caddish ! "  he  choked  out  at  last. 

Her  eyes  blazed  murderously,  a  savage  dusky  crimson 
dyed  the  small  white  face  that  had  looked  at  him  with 
such  pitiful  entreaty.  She  did  not  tower,  she  contracted — 
she  crouched  like  a  savage  little  cat  ready  to  spring  and 
rend  him ;  her  muscles  grew  visibly  tense  under  her  trans- 
parent skin.  He  could  hear  the  sharp  hiss  of  her  intaken 
breath,  and  see  her  lips  writhe  in  the  struggle  to  control 
utterance  that  seemed  on  the  point  of  breaking  from  them. 
When  she  spoke,  it  was  in  a  low  clear  whisper,  more 
piercing,  it  seemed  to  her  unlucky  auditor,  than  any 
shriek. 

' '  Sir,  when  you  say  to  me  that  even  a  Frenchman  might 
find  despicable  the  deed  an  Englishman  would  shrink  from 
as  a  stain  upon  his  honor, — you  insult  my  country  of 
Prance,  and  my  brave  father;  and  the  noble  gentleman 
Who  will  be  my  husband  soon !  .  .  .  It  is  fortunate  for  you 
that  M.  Charles  is  not  here,  see  you  well?  Brave  as  a 
lion,  he  is  a  master  of  the  sword.  But  enough! — I  was 
mistaken  and  I  have  been  justly  humiliated.  .  .  .  Permit 
that  I  wish  you  a  very  good  afternoon!" 

She  curtsied  to  the  miserable  P.  C.  Breagh  with  crushing 
ceremony,  turned,  and  had  swept  from  the  room  before  he 
could  even  reach  the  door.  It  shut  in  his  face  with  a 
deliberate  gentleness  that  was  more  final  than  a  slam 
Would  have  been.  .  .  . 

"  I  've  done  it,  by  golly ! ' '  said  P.  C.  Breagh. 

Just  after  this  lofty,  dignified  fashion  had  Britomart- 


68  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Krimhilde-Brunhilde-Isolde  quitted  the  scene  of  many  an 
imaginary  interview.  That  a  being  so  small  and  frail 
should  assume  the  airs  of  these  heroines  tickled  even  while 
it  angered  him.  A  moment  more  he  glowered  and  fumed, 
cursing  the  Fate  that  had  dealt  him  another  set-back,  and 
then  .  .  .  the  tinkle  of  crockery  heralded  the  return  of 
Monica  with  Sister  Boniface  and  a  tray,  satisfactorily 
laden  with  a  stout  brown  teapot,  bread  and  butter,  home- 
made preserves,  and  a  dish  of  somewhat  solid  ham-sand- 
wiches, the  welcome  sight  of  which  drove  away  the  dark 
blue  devils  and  restored  his  cheeriness  again.  He  could  go 
a  long  time  on  one  full  meal,  he  told  himself,  as  he  per- 
petrated a  surprising  onslaught  on  the  eatables  and  thirst- 
ily swallowed  cup  after  cup  of  convent  tea. 

Replete  at  length,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  conscious 
— so  overwhelming  was  the  sensation  of  fullness  after  his 
protracted  fast — of  feeling  like  a  boa-constrictor  who  had 
swallowed  his  blanket.  He  longed  to  sleep,  the  continual 
battle  with  recurrent  yawns  was  becoming  painful;  and 
yet  you  are  mistaken  if  you  suppose  that  this  young  man 
did  not  love  his  gentle  step-sister,  and  was  not  glad  at 
heart  to  be  once  more  in  Monica's  company.  But  Brother 
Ass,  the  body,  ridden  fast  and  far  by  the  turbulent  spirit 
and  the  eager  mind,  belabored  by  the  cudgel  of  Fate  until 
his  solid  ribs  were  cracking  within  his  shaggy  hide,  wanted 
repose  more  than  social  converse.  Carolan's  eyelids  were 
closing  under  the  stream  of  Monica's  eager  talk.  His  head 
was  nodding — his  mouth  had  fallen  ajar — a  faint  snore 
was  on  the  point  of  issuing  from  the  organ  immediately 
above  it — when  he  started  as  broad  awake  as  though  a 
wasp  had  stung  him.  .  .  .  Monica  was  speaking  of 
Juliette.  .  .  . 

"I  am  so  glad  that  you  have  met  her! — yet  sorry,  too, 
because  she  is  leaving  us  so  soon  now.  Is  she  not  sweet?— 
with  those  grave  airs,  and  those  angelic  eyes  under  deter- 
mined eyebrows,  and  that  shy  wild  smile  ..."  thus  Monica 
prattled  on.  To  stop  her — or  to  prevent  himself  from 
giving  her  his  candid  opinion  of  her  lauded  idol,  he  in- 
quired whether  she  did  not  find  him  handsome,  and  had 
her  reply : 

1 '  Not  a  bit !  rather  ugly  than  otherwise ;  but  I  love  your 
face,  and  always  shall,  Carol  Why,  you  have  a  mustache 
already ! ' '  she  cried. 


69 

He  blushed  as  Monica  jumped  up  for  a  nearer  inspec- 
tion, to  discover  that  the  close  sprinkling  of  dark-brown 
freckles  on  the  egg-smooth  young  surface  of  his  upper  lip 
had  deceived  the  sisterly  observation. 

"The  mustache  will  come,"  Monica  said  with  a  smile, 
"and  then  you  will  begin  to  be  more  of  a  dandy." 

He  fancied  that  her  look  betrayed  a  shade  of  disap- 
pointment. "No  wonder!  such  a  beast  as  I  must  look!" 
he  thought.  But  he  said  with  rather  a  clumsy  air  of 
indifference : 

"I  daresay  my  clothes  are  a  bit  shabby,  perhaps  more 
than  a  bit !  But,  you  see,  I  've  been  knocking  about  on  the 
rail — and  aboard  steamers — and  so  on." 

"Still,  you  could  be — what  Juliette  would  call  more 
soigne."  There  was  a  little  accent  of  sisterly  rebuke  in  the 
words.  "And  I  have  talked  to  her  so  much  about 
you " 

' '  That  you  're  afraid  she  '11  chaff  you,  now  she  has  beheld 
the  wonder!  If  she  did  I  shouldn't  be  surprised!  .  .  . 
And  if  I  'd  known  you  wanted  me  to  turn  up  a  thundering 
swell,  I'd  have  polished  myself  up  a  bit.  My  hair  is  too 
long,  of  course.  .  .  .  But — most  British  fellows  run  shaggy 
after  a  year  or  two  at  a  German  University." 

He  spoke  as  easily  and  naturally  as  was  possible,  with  a 
lump  in  the  throat  embraced  by  the  paper  collar,  and  a 
savage  pain  tearing  at  his  heart. 

She  said: 

"  It  is  a  bargain  then,  and  I  shall  see  my  old  Caro  looking 
as  he  ought  to  look,  next  time  he  comes  here !  .  .  .  Tell  me, 
when  will  next  time  be  ? " 

He  stuttered,  inwardly  writhing : 

"I  had  no  idea  you'd  mind  the  sort  of — togs  a  fellow 
went  about  in !  You,  who  are  going — you  told  me  in  your 
last  letter !  to  take  a  vow  of  poverty  and  all  the  rest !  .  .  . ' ' 

She  laughed  and  patted  the  brown  hand. 

"But  you  aren't  going  to  take  a  vow  of  poverty.  .  .  . 
You  will  be  independent.  .  .  .  You  will  have  everything — I 
hope  you  will  have  everything;  that  goes  to  make  Life 
pleasant,  and  all  the  other  things  that  make  it — precious. 
...  I  am  very  ambitious  for  you,  Carolan ! ' ' 

He  laughed  rather  roughly. 

"Ambition  in  the  cap  and  cape  of  a  postulant!  What 
would  the  Mistress  of  the  Novices  say  to  that?" 


70  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

The  face  framed  in  the  triple  row  of  white  frills  was  very 
pure  and  tender. 

"She  would  say  that  there  are  more  kinds  of  ambition 
than  one.  I  am  ambitious  that  my  brother  should  be 
spoken  of  among  men — as  a  man  who  in  the  whole  course 
of  his  career  was  never  once  ashamed  to  own  himself  a 
Catholic,  and  to  prove  not  only  in  words,  but  in  deeds — 
his  loyalty  to  his  Master  in  the  face  of  the  world!  You 
understand  me,  don't  you?" 

He  answered  her  in  an  embarrassed,  awkward  way,  and 
with  a  look  that  evaded  hers. 

"Of  course!  You  mean — you'd  like  me  to  be  the  kind 
of  fellow  who  goes  regularly  to  Mass,  and  receives  the 
Blessed  Sacrament  on  all  the  Feasts  of  Obligation !  Well, 
I  can't  boast  of  being  quite  as  scrupulous  as  that!  But 
at  any  rate  I  have — ringed  in  with  the  late-comers — at 
Christmas  and  Easter  and  Whitsuntide.  ..."  He  added, 
"Not  that  I  should  have  been  thought  priggish  if  I'd 
gone  oftener.  ...  Of  course  the  bulk  of  the  students  at 
Schwarz-Brettingen  were  Lutheran  Protesants.  But  about 
one-third  were  Catholics,  I  should  think." 

"And  were  all  of  them  late-comers — ringing  in  at  the 
last  minute?" 

"I  can't  say  that.  When  one  did  turn  out  for  early 
Mass  one  found  the  churches — there  were  three  of  'em — 
packed  full." 

"Ah!  .  .  .  Where  are  you  staying?"  she  asked  him  in 
a  changed  tone. 

He  faltered,  sick  at  heart  at  having  to  lie  to  her. 


XI 

"I — I  HAVEN'T  got  the  address  on  me  just  now!  By 
George,  that's  just  .  .  .  Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

"What  is  the  joke?  Do  tell  me!"  she  urged,  puzzled 
by  the  mirthless  bark  of  laughter. 

He  could  not  have  explained.  His  Irish  sense  of  humor 
had  been  tickled  to  realize  that  in  actual  fact  he  did  carry 
his  address  about  him.  Did  not  the  shabby  old  frieze 
greatcoat  constitute  his  hotel,  chambers  and  club?  To 
change  the  subject  he  began  to  question  her  experiences 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  71 

in  the  Novitiate.  She  looked  happy,  he  admitted.  He 
did  not  hide  that  her  decision  to  take  the  Veil  had  been  a 
surprise. 

"You  see,  you'd  always  been  such  a  jolly  girl,"  he  told 
her.  "Such  a  stunning  companion — I'd  never  have  ex- 
pected it  of  you." 

Her  bright  laugh  rang  through  the  room. 

"Dear  boy,  do  you  suppose  that  nuns  are  dismal  things, 
or  indifferent  to  pleasant  companionship?  You  should 
hear  us  laugh  and  chatter  at  Recreation.  Perhaps  because 
the  time  for  fun  is  limited,  as  the  time  for  other  things 
— we  enjoy  that  half-hour's  freedom  all  the  more.  Not" — 
her  smile  did  not  leave  her,  but  it  changed  in  expression, — 
"not  that  I  did  not  have  my  miserable  hours.  For  the 
matter  of  that  I  have  them  still!" 

He  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  hearth-side,  where  a  tiny 
gas-fire  made  pretense  of  cheerfulness. 

"I  never  thought  it  was  all  jam  in  the  Novitiate.  A1 
fellow  I  knew  who  had  wanted  to  be  a  Carthusian  monk — 
and  found  it  impossible  to  stick  out  the  preliminaries! — 
hinted  as  much  to  me." 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  calmly,  "that  he  could  not  sub- 
mit to  the — necessary  experiences  that  lead  to  the  final 
breaking  of  the  will." 

"Breaking  of  the  will!"  He  kicked  the  old-fashioned 
fender  savagely.  "What  do  they  do  to  break  yours,  in 
Heaven's  name?" 

"What  is  done  is  done  in  Heaven's  name,"  she  said, 
"and  that  is  why  one  can  submit  cheerfully.  But  my 
first  weeks  in  the  noviceship  were  cloudlessly  happy." 
She  laughed  a  little.  "I  thought  it  was  always  going  to 
be  like  that!" 

"I  see!  .  .  .  I  twig!  .  .  .  They  made  much  of  you  in 
the  beginning.  ..."  He  gritted  his  teeth  and  turned  his 
face  away. 

"Perhaps  they  did!  ...  I  remember  I  had  all  the 
nicest  things  to  do,  and  nobody  minded.  ...  I  was 
allowed  to  dust  the  High  Altar,  change  the  flowers  in  the 
vases,  and  help  the  Sister-Sacristan  brush  and  fold  the 
vestments  away.  And  one  day  I  was  permitted  to  wash 
the  lunette  of  the  monstrance.  It  was  a  wonderful  ex- 
perience. One  could  understand  how  the  Magdalene  must 
have  felt  when  she  wiped  the  Sacred  Feet." 


72  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

He  was  silent,  for  she  had  soared  to  heights  beyond 
him. 

"Perhaps  it  made  me  proud,  for  next  day  I  was  set  to 
tidy  the  linen-room  presses.  I  worked  for  some  weeks 
there,  darning  and  mending  and  folding.  Then  I  was  sent 
to  the  Refectory."  The  smile  was  only  in  her  eyes  now. 
"I  liked  laying  the  long  tables,  but  I  hated  washing  dirty 
plates  and  dishes,  and  I  simply  loathed  cleaning  knives 
and  forks." 

"I  should  think  so!  Housemaid's  duty!  I  understand 
now  what  you  meant  a  minute  back !  .  .  .  By  George !  .  .  . 
'Miserable  hours!'  ..." 

Her  deep  eyes  rested  on  him  calmly: 

"And  after  I  am  clothed — after  I  have  received  the 
habit — I  shall  most  likely  go  on  having  them!  I  daresay 
I  shall  have  them  after  I  have  taken  the  Veil." 

He  kicked  the  fender  again,  his  hands  shoved  deep  into 
his  empty  pockets,  and  felt  the  shilling,  sole  coin  remaining 
to  him,  burn  against  his"  aching  ribs.  He  would  have 
given  ten  years  of  life  to  have  been  able  to  tell  her  that  a 
home  with  him  was  ready  and  waiting, — in  case  she  shrank 
from  the  final  plunge.  He  made  a  great  effort  and  groaned 
out: 

' '  But  that  won 't  be  for  two  years  to  come.  And  things 
may  happen — who  knows!" 

"Oh!  I  pray,"  she  said  with  a  sudden  flush,  "that  I 
need  not  wait  two  years ! ' ' 

Her  eagerness  lifted  a  load  that  had  been  crushing  him. 
In  sheer  relief  he  began  to  stammer: 

"What  a  blessed  idiot  I  am!  I  didn't  understand  ... 
I  thought  you  ...  I  believed  you.  ...  Of  course  you 
don 't  do  the  dirty  work  now.  That  was  only  for  a  time,  at 
the  beginning.  Well,  I'm  glad!  I'd  hate  to  think  of  my 
sister  tackling  servants '  duties,  anyway !  All  right !  Well, 
what  are  you  on  to  now,  eh?  Back  at  dusting  the  Altar 
and  doing  the  flowers?" 

"No.  That  is  for  others. — There  are  many  others,  and 
each  of  them  must  have  a  turn  at  the  pleasant  things. 
When  you  have  lived  in  the  community  only  a  short  time, 
you  begin  to  understand  that.  .  .  .  And  when  you  have 
lived  in  it  only  a  little  longer  you  learn  that  between  the 
pleasant  duties  and  the  unpleasant  duties  there  is  no 
difference,  whatever.  Nothing  being  done  that  is  not  done 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  73 

for  God.  "When  I  was  scrubbing  the  desks  in  the  Little 
Class  to-day, — there  are  seventy  children,  and  the  tiny 
ones  come  in  with  muddy  boots  from  the  garden  in  wet 
weather,  and  splash  the  ink  over  everything, — I  was  dust- 
ing the  Altar.  .  .  .  "When  I  was  washing  the  slates  I  was 
washing  the  Feet  of  Christ.  It  is  no  matter  what  we  do  as 
long  as  it  is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of — and  is  done  with  a 
right  intention!  .  .  .  The  lowest  service  counts  as  the 
highest  in  the  sight  of  Almighty  God.  It  is  one  of  the  great 
mysteries  of  Faith  that  this  should  be  so.  But  it  is  so !  .  .  . 
There 's  the  first  bell  for  Benediction ! ' ' 

It  was  too  late  now.  But  even  as  she  rose  with  that 
wonderful  look  in  the  calm  face  framed  in  by  the  triple 
row  of  little  starched  frills,  and  took  his  hand  and  led  him 
to  the  door,  P.  C.  Breagh  realized  that  he  ought  from  the 
first  to  have  told  the  truth  to  her. 

The  parlor  door  led  them  into  the  corridor  upon  the 
boarders'  side.  She  guided  him  along  it,  left  him  at  the 
entrance  of  the  chapel,  pressed  his  hand,  whispered  ' '  Good- 
bye for  now ! ' '  and  vanished  through  a  curtained  archway 
on  the  right  hand,  communicating  with  the  cloister,  pos- 
sibly. 

He  entered  the  chapel.  A  small  portion  of  the  nave, 
near  the  west  door,  was  open  to  the  public.  Some  dozen 
worshipers,  chiefly  elderly  ladies,  knelt  or  sat  upon  the 
rush-bottomed  chairs.  Beyond,  a  high,  wrought-iron  grille 
partitioned  off  the  capacious  choir,  separated  from  the 
cloisters  upon  either  hand  by  the  tall  carved  screen  that 
backed  the  rows  of  stalls.  And  the  dying  daylight  of  the 
January  afternoon  shone  through  high  windows,  stained  in 
hues  tender  as  flower-petals  or  brilliant  as  jewels,  depicting 
the  various  scenes  in  the  life  of  the  Virgin  Mother  of 
Christ. 

The  second  bell  had  not  yet  rung  for  Benediction  as 
Carolan  bent  the  knee  and  slipped  into  a  chair  near  the 
central  gate  of  the  grille.  The  place  was  full  of  the  pres- 
ence and  perfume  of  flowers,  and  th'e  spice  of  incense  burned 
at  the  morning  Mass.  Tapers  tall  and  short  blazed  on  the 
High  Altar,  and  a  nun  in  purple  habit  and  creamy  veil 
knelt  at  a  faldstool,  absorbed  in  adoration  of  the  Throned 
Mystery  of  Faith.  Within  the  space  of  a  Paternoster  the 
second  bell  rang.  The  choir-sister  rose,  knelt  in  adoration, 
moved  her  stool  carefully  aside,  and  went  out  by  a  side-' 


74  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

door  in  the  sanctuary.  And  a  sound  as  of  many  moving 
waters  began  to  grow  upon  the  ear.  A  curtain  was  drawn 
that  masked  an  archway  upon  the  farther  side  of  the 
grille  upon  the  right  side :  there  was  the  invariable  convent 
signal  of  a  hand-clap,  and  two  girlish  shapes,  in  long  white 
muslin  veils  over  dark  uniform  dresses,  entered  together; 
and  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  broad  aisle  between  the  rows 
of  benches,  moving  sedately  side  by  side.  One  wore  a  pale 
blue,  the  other  a  crimson  ribbon  supporting  a  silver  medal. 
One  was  of  solid  Teutonic  build,  with  magnificent  plaits  of 
golden  hair,  vivid  red  and  white  coloring,  and  rather 
stiff,  if  dignified,  bearing.  The  other — a  slender  creature 
of  stature  almost  childlike,  yet  with  womanly  coils  of  duski- 
ness shot  through  with  a  tortoiseshell  arrow,  seemed  insig- 
nificant as  she  walked  beside  her  stately  white-veiled  mate. 
And  yet,  it  was  not  walking,4but  gliding,  hovering,  float- 
ing .  .  .  such  airy  grace  of  movement  as  P.  C.  Breagh  had 
never  dreamed  of, — Britomart-Krimhilde-Briinhilde  hav- 
ing covered  the  ground  with  the  magnificent  indolence  of  a 
glacier,  or  traversed  it.  with  the  overwhelming  rush  of  an 
avalanche,  when  the  exigencies  of  some  imaginary  scene  of 
passion  had  compelled  her  to  "fly  from  her  conqueror's 
presence,"  or  "impetuously  gain  his  side."  Now  for  the 
first  time  her  inventor  found  himself  wavering.  .  .  .  Was 
his  heroic  ideal  too  Titanic,  too  colossal,  too  big  and  too 
clumsy?  Would  it  not  be  just  as  well  to  shorten  her  by 
half  a  dozen  superfluous  inches — reduce  her  superabundant 
flesh?  And  if  at  the  same  time  one  were  to  darken  her 
dandelion  tresses? — tone  down  the  staring  china-blue  of 
her  eyes  into 

What  was  the  color?  The  blue  of  the  spring  flower  or 
the  blue  of  the  sapphire?  .  .  .  You  never  knew  until  she 
looked  at  you  .  .  .  and  then  you  weren't  certain  .  .  .  you 
kept  wanting  her  to  look  again!  Meek  or  tigress-like,  in 
whatever  mood  you  found  her,  you  would  always  be  want- 
ing Juliette  to  look,  and  look  again. 

The  revelation  of  his  monstrous  folly,  the  knowledge  of 
his  faithlessness  came  in  the  instant  of  recognition,  hit  him 
like  a  seventh  wave  and  bowled  him  off  his  mental  legs. 

Before  he  had  recovered,  the  white-veiled  hovering  figure 
had  vanished.  The  aisle  had  noiselessly  filled  with  a  great 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  75 

procession  of  similar  figures,  standing  motionless,  waiting, 
two  by  two.  There  was  a  second  clap  of  hands, — and  the 
white- veiled  column  knelt  in  adoration.  At  a  third  signal 
they  rose  and  slowly  filed  into  their  seats.  And  a  second 
double  line  of  younger  girls,  the  Middle  Class,  also  white- 
veiled  and  white-gloved,  formed  in  the  place  of  them,  and 
the  orderly,  impressive  maneuver  was  repeated  by  these. 
Little  children  took  their  places,  and  did  as  their  seniors. 
A  noble  voluntary  burst  from  the  organ  in  the  high-placed 
loft,  and  the  purple-habited,  creamy-veiled  choir-sisters 
poured  in  and  took  their  stalls,  and  the  lay-sisters  and 
novices  followed,  filling  the  great  choir  to  overflowing,  as 
the  door  of  the  vestry  was  opened  by  a  sweet-faced  child 
in  a  red  cassock  and  white  cotta,  and  the  vested  priest,  a 
scholarly-looking,  gray-haired  man,  came  in  and  went  to 
his  place.  And  the  strains  from  the  organ  changed,  and  a 
voice  fresh  and  sweet  as  a  thrush's,  passionless-pure  as  an 
angel's,  began  to  chant  0  Salutaris, — and  something  like  a 
sob  broke  from  P.  C.  Breagh's  throat,  and  hot  tears  came 
crowding,  and  one  at  least  fell. 

He  had  been  shipwrecked,  and  here  was  a  little  green- 
palmed  islet  of  peace  to  rest  on — his  only  for  a  moment, 
but  a  moment  in  which  to  gather  strength,  and  breath  to 
face  the  raging  seas  again.  His  mood  changed.  He  was 
glad  he  had  not  told  Monica  that  he  was  homeless,  half- 
clothed,  and  all  but  penniless  in  big,  black,  brutal,  noisy 
London,  and  would  have  to  water  cab-horses,  or  sweep  a 
crossing,  or  clean  boots  to  keep  alive. 

Ah,  what  was  it  Monica  had  said?  Without  her  know- 
ing it  those  words  had  been  somehow  meant  for  Carolan. 
Let's  see — how  did  they  go?  ...  Something  this  way.  .  .  . 

"It  is  no  matter  what  we  do,  as  long  as  it  is  nothing  to  ~be 
ashamed  of,  and  is  done  with  a  right  intention.  The  lowest 
service  counts  as  the  highest  in  the  sight  of  Almighty  God. 
It  is  one  of  the  great  mysteries  of  Faith  that  this  should  ~be 
so.  But  it  is  so!" 

"I— see!" 

He  had  sheltered  his  shamed  and  burning  face  in  his  big 
hands.  But  with  that  ray  of  inward  light  had  come 
courage  and  resourcefulness.  He  lifted  his  head  bravely 
now  and  drew  in  a  deep  chestful  of  the  sweet,  warm, 
pleasant  air. 

"Perhaps   the   money   was   spoiling   me! — making   me 


76  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

look  to  it  instead  of  to  myself — and  I  've  been  stripped  and 
pitched  into  deep  water  as  the  big  fellows  used  to  do  to  us 
little  chaps,  when  we  funked.  Perhaps  this  is  for  the 
best — and  I'll  find  it  so  one  day.  Perhaps  I  can  make  up 
for  some  of  the  caddish  things  I've  done — refusing  that 
girl's  offered  help  so  savagely  among  'em — by  taking  this 
thing  well!  Facing  what  there  is  to  face — and  putting 
up  with  what  I've  got  to.  Well,  I'll  have  a  shot  at  it!" 
said  P.  C.  Breagh  to  P.  C.  Breagh.  "I'll  do  nothing  that 
I  'm  ashamed  of — and  be  ashamed  of  nothing  that 's  honest ; 
I'll  labor  for  my  daily  bread — and  for  my  nightly  bed, — 
with  these  hands  and  shoulders, — if  nobody  will  pay  me 
for  my  brains ! — And  what  I  do  I  '11  do  cheerfully.  Shall 
I  kick  at  sweeping  a  crossing,  when  He  was  a  carpenter?" 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  not  prayed,  and  yet  he  had 
without  knowing  it.  The  Benediction  seemed  to  fall  on 
him  like  dew.  He  went  out  by  the  west  door  with  the 
small  congregation,  and  found  himself  in  the  foggy  London 
square  within  sound  of  the  roaring  traffic  of  the  London 
streets,  with  a  return  of  the  old  hideous  shrinking.  A 
sensation  paralleled  by  that  of  the  shipwrecked  castaway 
who  has  found  brief  resting-place  upon  the  tiny  coral  atoll 
and  must  perforce  commit  himself,  upon  his  crazy  raft  of 
planks  and  hencoops,  to  the  shark-infested,  treacherous 
Pacific  seas  again. 


XII 

HE  strolled  up  a  short  street,  and  looked  for  and  found  a 
roomy,  double  bow-fronted  house  of  warm  old  red  brick, 
with  huge  capacious  areas.  ' '  Vanity  Fair ' '  had  been  writ- 
ten there,  he  knew,  perhaps  "Esmond"  too,  though  he 
was  not  sure.  He  took  off  fiis  hat  to  the  memory  of  the 
magician,  and  wondered  where  his  other  idol,  the  still 
living  author  of  the  ' '  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  "and  ' '  Never 
Too  Late  to  Mend"  might  be  run  to  earth,  and  made  up 
his  mind  to  see  Dickens 's  grave  in  Westminster  Abbey  on 
the  morrow,  whether  it  cost  sixpence,  or  whether  it  did  not. 
.  .  .  And  then  he  wavered,  sixpence,  as  we  know,  being  the 
moiety  of  his  capital;  and  then  he  remembered  that  to- 
morrow could  only  be  reached  by  the  bridge  of  to-night. 
He  walked  very  fast  for  some  distance,  trying  to  exorcise 


THE   MAN   OF   IRON  77 

the  demons  that  this  thought  evoked,  and, — blinded  by 
their  buzzing  and  stinging — was  in  Piccadilly  before  he 
knew.  The  high  railings  of  the  Green  Park,  and  the  foggy 
solitude  of  the  gravel-walks  between  the  wintry  lawns, 
tempted  him  to  turn  in  and  rest  upon  a  seat  a  while,  for  he 
was  still  somewhat  giddy  and  shaky,  and  the  bump  so 
confidently  prophesied  by  the  Infanta  had  appeared  upon 
his  brow. 

He  took  off  the  old  felt  wideawake  and  stared  at  Picca- 
dilly, brilliant  with  the  paroquet-colors  of  passing  omni- 
buses, green  and  royal  blue,  chocolate  and  white-and-gold. 
Behind  the  shining  windows  of  the  great  Clubs,  the  mem- 
bers '  heads,  gleamingly  bald,  or  affluent  of  hair  and  whisk- 
ers, alternately  appeared  and  vanished.  He  caught  tirief 
passing  glimpses  of  white-bosomed  waiters,  .  .  .  the  twinkle 
of  gilt  buttons  on  livery  coats.  .  .  .  Beer-drays,  driven  by 
burly  red- faced  men,  frequently  in  shirt-sleeves,  went  by 
with  a  whiff  of  malt,  and  the  thunder  of  heavy  hoofs. 
Vans  of  business-houses  passed  with  a  clang  of  bells.  Vic- 
torias and  landaus  with  muffled,  and  furred,  and  veiled 
ladies  in  them;  shut-up  broughams,  madly-daring  veloci- 
pedists  on  the  machine  of  the  era,  a  giant  wheel  followed 
by  a  pigmy  one,  made  fleeting  pictures  on  the  retina  of 
P.  C.  Breagh.  And  the  double  river  of  traffic,  and  the  east- 
ward and  westward-flowing  stream  of  pedestrians  went  by 
without  a  break  in  them.  Gas-lamps  began  to  make 
islands  of  yellow  light  upon  the  fog,  but  showed  no  dwin- 
dling in  their  numbers.  H*e  wondered  if  they  would  go  on 
like  this  all  night?  And  then  some  one  came  up  and  sat 
down  on  the  other  end  of  the  seat  rather  heavily,  and  the 
slight  resultant  shock  and  jar  brought  round  P.  C.  Breagh 's 
head. 

He  saw  the  thick-set,  rather  lax  and  round-shouldered 
figure  of  a  man  of  middle  age,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  tweeds 
patterned  in  giant  checks  of  black  and  white  and  gray,  the 
dernier  cri  in  masculine  morning-wear,  had  the  observer 
but  known  it.  His  hat,  a  low-crowned  chimney-pot  in 
hard  gray  felt,  was  tilted  backward,  his  hair,  of  a  pale  tow- 
color,  tufted  out  from  beneath  the  hat  in  a  way  that  cried 
for  the  attention  of  the  barber;  his  whiskers,  and  mus- 
tache, of  the  same  shade  as  the  hair,  were  raggedly  in  need 
of  the  shears.  He  wore  a  buttonhole-bouquet  composed 
of  a  pink  camellia  with  Neapolitan  violets,  and  pale  lemon 


78  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

kid  gloves,  and  sucked  the  carved  ivory  knob  of  an  ebony 
stick  he  carried,  until, — upon  his  neighbor's  looking  round 
as  above  recorded, — he  took  it  from  a  somewhat  lax  and 
swollen  mouth,  and  observed  that  it  was  a  nice  afternoon. 
Adding,  as  P.  C.  Breagh  made  a  sound  which  might  have 
been  assent  or  denial: 

' '  If  it  is  aff ernoon  ?  Without  my  fellow  to  post  me,  I  'm 
apt  to  be  wrong  about  time.  Not  that  that's  remarable. 
Lots  of  people  the  same,  don't  you  know?  Nothing  extra 
— nothing  ex — oh,  damn ! ' ' 

A  covert  anxiety — and  a  very  visible  tremulousness  were 
combined  in  the  speaker's  manner.  His  large  watery  blue 
eyes  were  painfully  vague  and  blurred,  with  distended 
pupils  that  looked  uneven;  his  gestures  were  uncertain, 
and  his  words,  well  chosen  enough,  and  uttered  with  the 
tone  and  accent  usually  distinctive  of  a  gentleman,  came 
haltingly  from  a  tongue  that  seemed  to  be  too  large  for  its 
owner's  mouth: 

"You  don't  regard  it  as  extra  .  .  .  Stop  a  minute!" 
A  pause  ensued,  during  which  the  vague-eyed  gentleman 
waited,  clutching  his  stick  with  both  hands,  and  holding 
his  swollen  mouth  ajar.  And  when  he  shut  the  moutfi.  to 
shake  his  head,  and  looked  at  P.  C.  Breagh  in  the  act  of 
doing  this,  the  perspiration  shone  upon  his  puffy  cheeks 
and  -stood  in  beads  upon  his  reddened  forehead,  as  though 
it  had  been  July  instead  of  a  foggy  afternoon  in  January, 
and  the  pink-bordered  cambric  handkerchief  with  which 
he  wiped  his  worried  face  became,  after  this  usage,  a  very 
rag.  And  a  queer,  unwillingly-yielded-to  sense  of  com- 
miseration prompted  Carolan  to  suggest : 

"  'Extraordinary'  was  the  word  you  wanted,  wasn't 
it?" 

"Much  obliged!  The  word,  unnoutedly!  'Stror'nary 
how  words  do  dodge  one  on  occasion!"  returned  the  un- 
certain gentleman  in  the  large-patterned  tweeds.  He 
added,  pulling  at  the  ragged  light  mustache,  with  a  gloved 
hand  that  was  decidedly  shaky:  "I  don't  know  that  it 
matters  parricurarly — but  I  'd  prefer  you  to  know  that  I  'm 
not  runk!" 

"Not— what?  .  .  ." 

"Not  runk!"  repeated  the  vague-eyed  gentleman  em- 
phatically. "Not  cut,  foozled,  miffed,  fizzed,  screwed! 
Not  that  it's  oblig — that's  another  of  the  words  that 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  79 

perretually  queer  me! — or  incumment  on  me  to  isplain, 
but  I  regard  it  as  due  to  myself,  by  Gad !  that  you  should 
clearly  unnerstand  the  case.  As  I  said  to  the  manuscript 
upon  the  Bench  when  the  bobby  ran  me  in  on  Thursday — 
or  was  it  Friray?  .  .  .  Appearances  are  sally  against  me, 
but  I  have  never  been  a  rinking  man !  The  doctors  have 
a  crajjaw  name  for  my  connition,  which  under  the  ex- 
issing  circ — and  that's  another  of  the  words  that  play  the 
deuce  and  all  with  me !  ...  Look  at  my  westick,  buttoned 
all  wrong!" 

He  slewed  round  upon  the  seat,  and  throwing  back  the 
large-patterned,  fashionably  cut-away  coat,  exhibited  the 
garment  mentioned,  every  buttonhole  of  which  afforded 
hospitality  to  a  button  not  its  own.  His  necktie,  the  ample, 
sailor-knotted  necktie  of  the  period,  was  under  his  left  ear, 
and  his  shirt  had  come  unstudded.  Being  appealed  to, 
P.  C.  Breagh  admitted  that  the  existing  condition  of  things 
left  something  to  be  desired! 

"When  a  man  entirely  ripends  on  valets  and  domes- 
sicks,"  explained  his  incoherent  neighbor,  "a  man  is  apt 
to  be  neglected  and  so  on.  As  a  marrer  of  fact  I  live  in 
that  little  joppa  cottisit!"  He  waveringly  pointed  to  a 
large,  handsome  private  dwelling  wifh  an  ornate  portico, 
situated  nearly  opposite,  and  sandwiched  between  two 
Clubs.  "An'  as  a  narrural  conquicense  of  my  temorrary 
irrability  to  pronounce  words  of  the  most  orinary  nature, 
I  am —  '  He  drew  an  aimless  figure  in  the  muddy  gravel 
with  his  ivory-topped,  ebony  stick,  and  went  on  with  a 
weak  laugh,  "I  am  absoluly  neglected  by  my  own  house- 
hoi'.  My  own  children  seem  ashamed  or  afray  of  me — all 
but  Little  Foxhall — splendid  little  chap  is  Little  Foxhall! 

But  his  mother — my  wife "  He  broke  off  to  say — 

"You  will  escuse  my  touching  on  these  priva'  matters  in 
conversation  with  a  perf ec '  stranger.  I  am  quite  conscience 
I  trepsass  against  the  orinary  usages  of  propriety,  espe- 
cially in  speaking  of  my  wife !  .  .  .  But — the  fact  is,  sir ! 
I  am  most  desperately  wretched.  Six  people  imagine  me 
runk — out  of  every  half-dozen.  While'  the  other  six — the 
irriots  whisser  it  when  they  think  I'm  out  of  earshock — 
suppose  me  to  be  suff rig  from  Sof rig  of  the  Bray ! ' ' 

He  began  to  tremble  and  shake,  and  put  his  stick  be- 
tween his  knees  to  hold  on  to  the  edge  of  the  seat  with  his 
lemon-kidded  hands — and  couldn't  hold  the  stick  in  that 


80  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

position,  and  it  fell,  and  P.  C.  Breagh  picked  it  up  and  put 
it  back. 

"I  am  murrabliged, "  said  the  owner  of  the  stick,  "by 
your  kind  attention!"  Something  struggled  and  fought  in 
the  vague  blue  eyes  that  he  turned  upon  Carolan, — it 
seemed  as  though  in  another  moment  Fear  and  Terror 
might  have  leaped  glaring  into  sight.  "And  while  I  am 
boun'  to  ajopolize  for  thrussing  my  privarrafairs  upon  a 
stranger — I  feel  bound  to  put  the  quession;  Why  should 
thissorathing  happen  to  ME  ?  Goolor ' !  I  've  been  no 
worse  than  lossa  urra  fellers!"  He  rose  up  shaking,  and 
shakily  sat  down  again,  nearly  missing  the  bench. 

"Bessaran  loss  of  'em — if  you  come  to  that!"  He 
turned  to  Carolan,  and  the  vague  eyes  were  piteous  and 
desperate.  .  .  .  "You  see  the  sort  of  chap  my  luck — my 
damble  luck — has  made  o '  me !  Yet  I  used  to  be  envied — 
envied  .  .  .  you  unnerstand!  I  have  belonged  to  the 
best  regiment  in  the  Brigade  of  Guards — the  devil  another ! 
I  have  played  the  bes'  cards,  driven  the  bes'  turnouts, 
smoked  the  bes'  cigars  and  had  the  most  stunnin'  women! 
Do  you  unnerstand  me? — Have!"  He  brought  down  the 
uncertain  hand  in  an  attempt  to  strike  his  knee  emphati- 
cally, and  missed  it ;  and  tried  to  look  as  though  he  had  not, 
and  went  on:  "And  I  have  belonged  to  the  best  gloves, 
by  Gad!  an'  put  on  the  clubs  with  the  most  celebrarred  li'- 
weights!  And  I  rode  my  steeplechase  at  York,  and 
romped  in  first,  and  they  toasted  and  speechified  me  at  the 
Gimcrack  dinner.  And  I  won  my  Oaks  and  my  Derby — 
and  led  in  the  winner,  with  all  the  cheeple  reering; — the 
seeple  peering — the — Goolor'!  Goolor'!  And  the  horse 
was  Gladianor — and  the  victory  was  a  popular  one — and 
my  name  was  a  household  word  through  the  Unirred  King- 
om.  A  household  word!  ..."  He  broke  off,  trembling 
and  sweating,  as  the  horse  might  have  done  after  the  race, 
and  put  the  wavering  hand  to  his  head,  and  turned  his 
empty  blue  eyes  from  Carolan 's  as  though  they  hurt. 
"What  was  my  name?"  he  asked  himself  in  a  dull,  thick, 
shaky  whisper,  "Goolor'!  Goolor'!  What  was  my  name? 
.  .  .  That  you,  Murchison  ? ' ' 

For  a  decent  figure  in  the  irreproachable  dark  clothing  of 
a.  servant  out  of  livery  had  passed  and  turned  back,  and 
now  approached  the  bench,  eyeing  Carolan  suspiciously 


THE    MAN   OF    IRON  81 

even  in  the  act  of  uncovering  its  well-brushed  head,  and 
saying  in  the  smooth  accents  of  servility : 

"It  is  Murchison,  your  Grace.  It's  cold,  your  Grace, 
and  you've  not  got  on  an  overcoat.  Your  Grace  had  best 
come  home  now,  before  your  Grace  is  missed !  .  .  . " 

"Home?"  His  Grace  looked  mildly  from  the  authori- 
tative Murchison  to  the  stately  "cottage  opposite,"  and 
one  of  the  uncertain  hands  in  the  pale  lemon  kid  gloves, 
making  as  though  to  pluck  at  an  untrimmed  whisker,  found 
itself  imprisoned  in  a  deferential  but  vigorous  grip. 

' '  Home,  your  Grace ! ' '  said  Murchison,  applying  mus- 
cular leverage  to  raise  the  inert  figure. 

"All  right.  Prass  I  better,  Murchison!"  He  rose  to 
the  perpendicular.  .  .  .  "Wish  you  a  very  good  evening, 
sir ! "  With  a  faded  reminiscence  of  what  might  have  been 
a  courtly  manner,  he  touched  his  hat  to  P.  C.  Breagh,  who 
returned  the  farewell  greeting,  avoiding  the  sharp  glance 
of  Murchison.  Then  valet  and  master  moved  off,  leaving 
a  little  trail  of  dialogue  behind  them : 

' '  You  give  us  the  fair  slip  that  time,  your  Grace !  .  .  . ' ' 

"Perhass  I  did,  Murchison — now  you  happen  to  mention 
it." 

"Might  have  been  killed  crossing  Piccadilly,  your  Grace, 
and  none  of  us  the  wiser. ' ' 

"GoolorM  I'd  wish  I  had,  Murchison — if  it  wasn't  for 
Little  Foxhall!"  .  .  .  Then  in  a  high,  quavering  note  of 
eagerness,  the  plea,  pitiable  and  ridiculous  and  pathetic: 
"I — I  say!  .  .  .  Tell  me  the  boy'd  have  minded,  Murchi- 
son— whass  a  lie  to  you,  you  dam'  smoo'-runged  Ananias! 
— and  I'll  give  you  my  nex'  week's  sovereign — I'm.  dead 
broke  now ! ' ' 

And  Murchison  and  His  Grace  went  away  together,  the 
man  steering,  with  deft  guiding  touches  of  the  master's 
elbow,  the  latter  stepping  high  and  bringing  his  feet  down 
with  a  peculiar  thump  that  threw  a  light  upon  the  situation 
in  the  eyes  of  P.  C.  Breagh.  Not  softening  of  the  brain. 
.  .  .  Donnerwetter!  what  were  the  London  doctors  think- 
ing of  ?  Had  none  of  them  read  the  ' '  Dissertation  on  Tabes 
Dorsalis"  of  the  Herr  Doctor  Max  Baumgarten,  published 
in  Berlin  only  a  twelvemonth  previously,  and  dealing 
fully  with  that  rare  and  curious  disease  of  the  nervous 
system?  .  .  .  Fibrous  degeneration  of  the  posterior  col- 


82  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

limns  of  the  spinal  cord,  affecting  the  patient's  sight,  gait, 
and — in  isolated  cases — speech  and  memory. 

"I'd  like  to  have  got  him  to  let  me  rap  his  shins!  Bet 
you  anything  there 'd  have  been  total  absence  of  reflex 
action!  Remember  that  peddler  in  the  Nervous  Ward  of 
the  Augusta  Hospital  at  Schwarz-Brettingen !  .  .  .  They 
cured  that  chap  with  spinal  injections  and  regular  mas- 
sage. And  this  man — being  a  thundering  swell  and  having 
the  best  advice  possible — is  naturally  being  treated  all 
wrong!  Hang  it! — how  cold  I  am!  Better  be  moving!" 
He  got  up  and  stamped  some  warmth  into  his  cold  feet  and 
nailed  his  cold  ribs  with  his  elbows  until  they  tingled 
again.  He  had  learned  something  of  the  wretchedness  that 
may  sometimes  dwell  in  princely  homes,  yet  be  homeless; 
and  fare  delicately  from  plate  of  gold  and  silver,  and  yet 
go  hungry, — and  lie  down  to  toss  and  stare  through  dread- 
ful sleepless  nights  on  soft  luxurious  beds.  Therefore  the 
bright  reflections  of  great  fires  dancing  on  the  plate-glass 
windows  of  the  "cottage  opposite"  stung  him  to  no  com- 
parisons. "Is  it  base  in  me  that  the  knowledge  of  the 
misery  of  this  wealthy  nobleman  makes  me  more  contented 
with  my  own  obscure  poverty?"  he  asked  himself,  and  the 
answer  was:  "Not  if  your  content  does  not  make  you  cal- 
lous to  his  woe!" 

"I  hope  that  Little  Foxhall  would  have  minded!"  he 
found  himself  saying ;  ' '  and  I  wish  to  Heaven  Baumgarten 
could  get  a  chance  of  doing  something  for  his  father !  I  Ve 
half  a  mind  to  drop  a  postcard  to  him — or  write  a  line  to 
the  Herr  Professor !  .  .  .  Stop,  though ! ' ' 

He  remembered  that  he  must  break  into  his  last  remain- 
ing shilling  to  buy  the  postcard  and  pay  for  the  stamps. 
Then  he  swung  out  through  the  Park  side-gates,  and  now 
he  was  one  of  the  crowd  rolling  Circus-wards,  and  all  the 
street  gas-lamps  had  been  lighted  by  certain  officials  with 
poles,  furnished  with  hooks  for  keying  the  gas  on,  and 
perforated  iron  sockets  filled  with  blazing  tow  that  had 
been  soaked  in  naphtha;  thus  every  shop  or  restaurant 
became  an  Aladdin's  cave  of  brilliancy, and  the  down-drawn 
blinds  of  the  houses  and  clubs  hid  splendor  unspeakable — 
if  only  one  had  been  able  to  pull  them  up.  .  .  . 

Alas !  to  us  who  live  in  these  pushful  days  of  Electrical 
Power  Supply,  the  glories  of  the  illuminated  capital  in  the 
year  of  grace  1870  would  appear  murky  enough.  We  should 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  83 

sneer  at  the  stumpy  iron  lamp-posts  and  the  chandeliers  yet 
adorned  with  Early  Victorian  crystal  glass  lusters.  The 
wood  pavement,  an  invention  de  luxe  economically  confined 
to  the  West  End,  and  upon  the  greasy  surface  of  which 
bus-horses  broke  legs  as  easily  as  the  most  aristocratic 
thoroughbreds — the  loose  iron  gratings  covering  basement- 
lights,  and  incidentally  presenting  man-traps  for  unwary 
pedestrians,  as  receptacles  for  stray  umbrellas,  dead  cats, 
wisps  of  packing  straw,  discarded  newspapers  and  orange- 
peel — the  untrapped  gutter-drains  and  sewer-vents  would 
awaken  our  ridicule  and  evoke  our  indignation,  even  as  the 
displays  in  the  shop  windows,  especially  those  of  modistes, 
couturieres,  and  tailors,  would  provoke  us  to  mirth. 

The  extraordinary  little  hats,  pot-shaped  or  plate-shaped, 
worn  upon  huge  chignons,  surmounting  cascades  of  ring- 
lets, couleur  Imperatrice.  The  preposterous  frilled  paniers, 
the  bustles,  the  jupes  of  velvet  or  plush,  flounced  to  the 
waist  or  kilted — sometimes  to  mid-leg,  displaying  boots — 
such  as  are  worn  to  this  hour  by  Principal  Boys  in  Christ- 
mas Pantomimes  and  serio-comic  ladies  of  the  Varsity 
Stage,  who  are,  we  know,  Principal  Boys  in  the  pupa,  or 
chrysalis-state.  All  these  things  compel  us  to  hold  our 
sides  when  we  review  them  in  the  illustrated  papers  of  the 
Ladies'  Mentor, — which  illuminating  periodical,  in  the 
dearth  of  Fashionable  Intelligence  from  Paris,  the  hub  and 
center  of  the  modish  world,  came  to  a  sudden  end  in  the 
October  of  that  year,  and  has  defied  all  efforts  at  resuscita- 
tion. 

Though  it  is  possible  that  the  wearers  of  these  long- 
vanished  modes — surveying  the  belles  of  Belgravia,  with 
their  humbler  followers  of  Brompton  and  Bayswater, — in 
the  present  year  of  progress,  might  be  moved  to  laughter 
or  provoked  to  wrath.  To-day,  when  the  ambition  of 
every  properly  constituted  woman  is  to  be  shaped  like  a 
golliwog  and  dressed  like  a  pen-wiper,  or  to  acquire  the 
sinuosities  of  a  Bayadere  and  drape  the  same  in  cobwebs 
calculated  to  conceal  nothing  and  suggest  everything — 
can  we  honestly  enlarge  upon  the  bygone  improprieties  of 
our  aunts,  and  moan  over  our  mothers'  taste  in  toilettes? 

It  was  just  six  when  P.  C.  Breagh  crossed  Piccadilly 
Circus  and  turned  down  toward  the  Haymarket.  Why 
hurry,  he  asked  himself,  when  you  have  nowhere  to  go? 


84  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

The  restaurants  were  filling  with  diners  who  were  going  to 
the  theaters,  the  smell  of  cooked  meats  made  savory  the 
fogginess.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  dug  his  hands  deep 
into  his  empty  pockets,  and  tried  to  whistle  as  he  loafed 
along. 

Misery  stalked  these  West  End  streets,  rampant  and 
clamorous.  A  burly  man  devoid  of  legs,  shuffling  along 
with  his  hands  in  a  pair  of  woman's  clogs,  entreated 
P.  C.  Breagh  in  stentorian  tones  to  buy  a  tin  nutmeg-grater. 
A  miserable  creature,  whose  sole  garment  appeared  to  be 
the  upper  portion  of  an  adult  pair  of  trousers,  begged  him, 
in  the  professional  whine,  to  spare  a  penny  for  the  pore 
orphan  boy !  A  dank  female,  in  rusty  weeds,  stationary 
by  the  curb,  displaying  a  baby  and  a  row  of  ballads,  be- 
sought of  him,  for  the  love  of  Gawd !  to  pity  the  unfortu- 
nate widow  and  her  starving  orphans. 

"Buy  a  ballad,  kind  genl'man!  On'y  a  penny — goes  to 
a  lovelly  choone!" 

"Ho!  Dermot,  you  look  'ealthy  now, 

Your  does  is  neat  an'  clean, 
Hi  never  sees  you  drunk  about, 
Werehever  'ave  you  been?" 

The  stave  chanted  as  an  appetizer  for  the  music-lover, 
she  wiped  the  baby's  nose  with  her  ostentatiously  white 
apron,  and  protested  it  to  be  the  image  of  its  father — 
blowed  up  in  a  Mind. 

"You  mean  a  mine,  don't  you?"  P.  C.  Breagh  was 
beginning,  when  the  widow  once  more  burst  into  song. 

"Your  wife  and  Fam'ly — Har  they  well? 

You  once  did  use  them  strynge! 

Ho!     Har  you  kinder  to  them  now? 

And  wence  this  'appy  chynge?" 

Reverting  to  prose,  as  P.  C.  Breagh  lounged  listlessly  on, 
she  demanded  why,  if  he  wasn't  going  to  buy,  he  had 
stopped  and  given  a  respectable  female  Tongue. 

"And  not  even  fork  out  a  copper,  you  blistered  swin- 
dler !  You  blindin ',  blazin ' ' ' 

"Come  now,  Chanting  Poll,  what's  all  this  here  row 
about?" 

The  gruff,  not  unkindly  voice  of  a  policeman  broke  in 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  85 

upon  the  rusty  widow's  eloquence.  P.  C.  Breagh,  yielding 
to  a  sudden  impulse,  wheeled  and  swung  back  again. 

"It's  all  right,  constable,  the  lady  was  only  having  a  bit 
of  chaff  with  me!" 

"I  know  her!"  said  P.  C.  999,  C.  Division,  removing  a 
heavy  but  not  brutal  hand  from  the  lady  in  question,  ' '  and 
the  kind  o'  chaff  she  slings.  Done  Time  for  it,  too,  she 
'as — before  now!" 

But  he  moved  on,  huge  in  his  belted  greatcoat,  walking 
with  the  elephantine,  clumping  step  begotten  of  boots  with 
iron  toe-caps,  and  iron-nailed  soles  at  least  two  inches 
in  thickness;  and  the  dank  widow  cocked  a  knowing  eye 
at  his  retreating  back,  and  the  other  at  her  unexpected 
champion. 

"Good  for  you,  my  dear!  Stand  us  a  drain  for  luck, 
since  you're  so  civil!" 

He  returned: 

"I  would  if  I'd  got  the  tin!  I  believe  I'm  poorer  than 
you  are ! ' ' 

"S'welp  me  bob!  wot  'ave  we  'ere?  A  haristocrat  in 
distress,  har  yer  ? ' '  she  demanded. 

"Not  quite,"  he  told  her,  as  she  turned  the  ponderous 
batteries  of  her  raillery  upon  him.  "  I  've  seen  an  aristocrat 
in  distress  to-day,  and  he  was  worse  than  me.  I'd  not 
change ! ' ' 

"Fer  ten  thousand  jimmies  hannual  hincome,  an'  a  'ouse 
at  Number  One  'Yde  Park  Corner!"  she  jeered.  "  'Ow 
did  yer  lose  the  I 'm-so-f unny  ? — for  if  you  'aven't  it  now, 
you  'ave  'ad  it,  I  '11  tyke  me  Davy ! ' ' 

' '  It 's — a  long  story !     Good-bye ! ' ' 

He  nodded  and  was  moving  on,  when  she  shot  out  a 
gaunt  hand  and  clutched  him  by  the  sleeve,  crying: 

' '  'Old  'ard,  Mister !  'Ang  on  till  I  give  this  'ere  squealer 
to  its  mammy.  About  due  now,  she  ought  to  be ! " 

"Isn't  it  .  .  ."  His  surprised  look  tickled  the  relict  of 
the  blown-up  husband  into  a  chuckle. 

"Mine?  Not  by  'arf !  A  tizzy  per  workin'-day  is  wot 
I  pays  for  the  loan  of  'er.  Nothin '  like  a  babby — specially 
in  narsty  weather  like  this  'ere — to  touch  the  people's 
'arts!  Lil's  mine,  though,  ain't  you,  deary?" 

A  preternaturally  bright-eyed,  white-faced,  wizened  little 
creature  peeped  out  from  the  shelter  of  the  ostentatiously 
clean  apron,  making  a  sound  as  of  assent. 


86  THE    MAN    OF   IRON 

"Is  she  ill?"  asked  P.  C.  Breagh  commiseratingly. 

"Not  'er,  that's  her  color!" 

"Hungry,  perhaps?"  he  asked. 

' '  Why  should  she  be  ?  ...  Wot  did  yer  'ave  f er  dinner, 
Lil?  Speak  up  like  a  good  gal  an'  tell  the  gen'lman!" 

The  small,  grimy  finger  came  out  of  the  wide  mouth. 
She  lisped  confidingly: 

"Ay'po'rth  o'  gin  'ot,  an'  a  stit  o'  totlit!" 

"My  God!"  gasped  P.  C.  Breagh  in  horror,  "does  that 
baby  drink  hot  gin  ? ' ' 

"When  she  can  get  it!  an'  so  does  Hi!"  explained  the 
lady  of  the  ballads,  whom  a  short  female  in  a  plaid  shawl 
and  a  battered  brown  bonnet  had  now  relieved  of  the  baby. 
She  added  hospitably:  "Come  an'  'ave  two-pennorth  o' 
comfort  along  o'  me  now!  It's  meat  and  drink  both!  as 
you  '11  find  afore  long !  I  '11  stand  treat — no  blarney ! ' ' 

But  he  groaned  and  fled  from  the  tragic  pair,  seeing  the 
blazing  eyes  of  the  drunkard,  set  in  the  small  white  childish 
face,  staring  at  him  from  the  gas-lamps  and  the  hoardings, 
from  the  paving-stones  beneath  his  hurrying  feet,  and 
from  under  the  hats  of  passing  strangers;  and  peering  be- 
tween the  slowly-moving  shoals  of  sooty  smoke  and  muddy 
vapor,  streaking  the  livid  grayness  overhead. 


XIII 

PALL  MALL  was  some  relief.  He  looked  for  the  Junior 
United  Service  Club,  and  found  it ;  for  the  Rag, — and  for  a 
time  walked  up  and  down  in  the  vicinity  of  both  of  these 
stately  institutions,  heartened  by  the  memory  that  his 
father  had  been  a  member  of  the  former — listening  with 
eager  ears  to  scraps  of  conversation  between  soldierly, 
well-groomed,  clear-voiced  men  in  evening  dress,  lingering 
on  the  wide  doorsteps  to  finish  some  animated  discussion, 
or  waiting  for  cabs  and  hansoms,  the  common  hack,  or  the 
smart  private  vehicle,  low  on  the  wheels  at  that  date,  and 
more  heavily  built  than  the  later  S.  and  T. 

Certain  bald,  mustached,  and  red-faced  veterans,  scrup- 
ulously attired  for  the  evening — delighted  him  extremely. 

"By  George,  General!"  he  heard  one  of  them  say,  as  he 
went  by,  his  slouch  forgotten,  his  shoulders  squared,  his 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  87 

head  held  up,  "look  at  that  seedy-looking  chap  there! 
Twelve  to  one  in  sixpences  he's  one  of  the  'supererogatory 
useless  infantrymen/  kicked  out  by  Cardwell,  after  twelve 
years '  Service.  D  'ye  take  the  bet  or  no  ?  " 

The  reference 'to  the  unpopular  War  Secretary  under 
whose  effacing  hand  infantry  regiments  had  not  only  lost 
their  numbers,  but  in  many  cases  vanished  from  the  rolls 
of  the  Army,  swallowed  up  in  the  New  System  of  Amalga- 
mation— had,  as  was  intended,  the  effect  of  the  red  rag  on 
the  bull.  The  General  bellowed : 

"Confound  me  if  I  don't!  Pay  the  cabman,  Mclntosh, 
while  I  put  the  fellow  through  his  paces!  Hi!  Hi! 
Come  here,  you,  sir!" 

Then,  as  P.  C.  Breagh,  summoned  by  an  imperious  wave 
of  the  umbrella,  stepped  out  of  the  fogginess  into  the 
mellow  circle  of  light  streaming  through  the  glass  doors  of 
the  brilliant  vestibule : 

"What's  your  regiment?  .  .  .  Give  me  the  old  designa- 
tion !  .  .  .  I  know  nothing  of  new-fangled  names ;  .  .  .  All 
my  eye  and  Betty  Martin !  and  I  don 't  care  a  dee  who  hears 
me  say  it!  ...  What  is  your  rank,  name  and  battalion- 
number?  When  were  you  discharged?  .  .  .  Where's  your 
small-book  and  certificate?  .  .  .  Got  'em  about  you?  .  .  . 
Every  soldier  has  'em  about  him!  And  why  don't  you 
answer,  dee  you! — why  don't  you  answer,  man?" 

The  volley  of  interrogations  left  no  room  for  reply.  A 
second  might  have  followed  had  not  the  General 's  crony,  in 
unconcealed  ecstasies  at  the  sulky  embarrassment  of  the 
victim  and  the  determined  attitude  of  the  inquisitor,  inter- 
vened : 

"Dashed  sorry!  My  mistake!  Believe  you've  landed 
a  civilian,  after  all,  General!" 

' '  Be  dee  'd !  and  so  I  have ! ' '  the  General,  after  a  raking 
stare,  admitted.  Then  he  took  his  crony's  arm,  they 
wheeled,  and  marched  into  the  Club  together.  From  whence 
issued,  a  moment  later,  a  small  boy  in  buttons,  who,  after  a 
look  up  and  a  look  down  the  street,  pursued  the  retreating 
figure  of  the  stalwart  young  man  in  the  gray  felt  wide- 
awake and  shaggy  greatcoat,  and  arrested  it  with  the  words : 

"  'Arf  a  jiff,  my  covey!"  He  added,  as  the  retreating 
figure  wheeled  and  surveyed  him  in  hard-eyed  silence: 
"Wasn't  it  you  what  Old  Fireworks  went  for  just  now  on 
the  'Rag  and  Famish'  steps?" 


88  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"The  General  called  to  me — mistaking  me  for " 

"I  know!"  The  boy  in  buttons  winked.  "He's  always 
a-pitching  into  somebody  in  mistake  for  somebody  else! 
Catch  hold !  This  is  for  you  ! " 

This  was  a  warm  half-crown,  thrust  upon  P.  C.  Breagh, 
without  further  ceremony.  He  flushed  a  murky,  savage 
red,  and  shouted: 

"What  is  this  for?  .  .  .  Who  had  the  infernal  inso- 
lence  ' ' 

He  choked.  Buttons,  plainly  regarding  the  tramp  who 
could  be  insulted  by  half-a-crown  as  a  new  species,  stared 
at  him  with  circular  orbs  of  astonishment,  retorting: 

"What's  it  for?  How  do  I  know,  stoopid?  He  told 
me  to  catch  you  and  give  it  you.  .  .  .  Cool  that!  Well, 
blow  me!  ..." 

These  expressions  being  evoked  by  the  swift,  supple 
movement  of  arm  and  wrist  that  had  sent  the  half-crown 
flying  into  the  midst  of  the  Pall  Mall  traffic.  A  sharp  ring 
on  the  wood-pavement,  a  yell,  and  a  flourish  of  naked  heels, 
and  a  street  Arab  had  seized  the  treasure.  As  the  fog 
swallowed  the  wealthy  imp,  said  Buttons  icily : 

"That's  your  game,  is  it?— pavin'  Pall  Mall  with  'arf 
bulls  for  gutter-pads  to  pick  up.  Better  ha'  tipped  it  to 
me! — or  sent  it  back  to  Old  Fireworks.  He  ain't  got  too 
many  of  'em.  Signs  too  many  toast-and-water  tickets  to 
be  flush!" 

Perhaps  P.  C.  Breagh,  scalding  with  wrath  as  he  was, 
would  have  dived  in  among  the  traffic  to  recover  the  coin 
had  it  been  recoverable.  But  the  snows  of  yester-year 
were  not  more  irretrievably  gone.  He  realized  it,  hung  his 
head  and  hunched  his  shoulders,  and  moved  away  from 
the  region  of  clubs,  where  officers  of  the  twin  Services  talked 
shop  in  sublime  indifference  to  other  subjects,  as  white- 
chokered  attendants  supplied  them  with  savory  meats 
and  cheering  drinks. 

Be  sorry  for  the  boy  with  the  gaunt  wolf  Hunger  at  his 
heels,  and  the  black  demon  of  Despair  sitting  on  his  shoul- 
ders. That  determination  of  his  to  face  what  might  come, 
and  take  his  luck  in  a  cheerful  spirit,  was  to  be  put  to  a 
yet  fiercer  test  before  the  dawn  of  a  new  day. 

He  was  hungry  and  thirsty,  and  sorely  tempted  to  break 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  89 

into  his  solitary  shilling.  But  that  silver  barrier  between 
himself  and  pennilessness  was  not  to  be  lightly  changed. 
He  wondered,  as  he  recalled  to  mind  the  many  occasions 
upon  which  he  had  wantonly  squandered  and  wasted 
money,  whether  an  experience  such  as  this,  previously 
undergone,  would  not  have  been  a  valuable  lesson  in  thrift  ? 

He  presently  came  by  a  well-known  theater.  It  was  too 
early  for  the  frequenters  of  the  Stalls  and  Boxes  and  Grand 
Circle.  But  playgoers  of  the  humbler  kind  were  pouring  in 
to  fill  the  unnumbered  seats  in  the  upper  tiers,  and  a  crowd 
composed  of  the  usual  elements  had  gathered  at  the  doors 
of  the  Pit  and  Gallery,  and  filled  the  narrow  side-alley  in 
which  these  were  situated,  and  overflowed  into  the  Strand. 

Queues  not  being  officially  recognized  and  regulated, 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  obstruction  and  pushing  and  persi- 
flage. Pausing  a  moment  under  the  gas-jet  bordered, 
glazed  shelter  ornamenting  the  box-office  entrance,  his  un- 
seasoned eyes  winced  as  they  took  in  a  sad,  sad  sight. 

You  saw  her  as  a  woman  not  past  early  middle-age,  nobly 
proportioned,  and  even  in  her  dreadful  degradation,  im- 
perially beautiful.  An  old  velvet  mantle  covered  her,  from 
which  the  torn  and  moth-eaten  fur-trimming  hung  in 
draggled  festoons.  A  trained  silk  gown,  stained  and  torn 
and  flounced  with  mud  of  many  thicknesses,  trailed  upon 
the  slushy  Strand  pavement;  a  broken  bonnet  perched  on 
a  palpably  false  and  inconceivably  dirty  chignon,  the  false 
curls  that  cascaded  from  beneath  it,  hid  a  workhouse-crop 
of  rusty  gray.  .  .  .  And  she  lifted  her  skirts  aside,  dis- 
closing muddy  bare  feet  shod  with  a  trodden-down,  elastic- 
sided  boot  and  a  ragged  slipper;  and  stepped  across  the 
threshold  of  the  gilt  and  mirrored  vestibule  with  a  grace- 
ful, royal  air.  .  .  . 

' '  Now  then,  missus !    Out  of  this,  will  you ! ' ' 

A  uniformed  theater-attendant  had  advanced  toward  the 
intruder.  But  she  did  not  retreat  in  terror  at  his  trucu- 
lence.  She  drew  herself  up,  and  folded  her  arms  upon  her 
bosom,  and  confronted  the  menial  with  a  haughty,  quelling 
stare. 

"Man!  who  are  you  to  drive  me  from  this  threshold! 
Out  of  the  way !  Clear ! — and  let  me  look  at  her.  Do  you 
ask  whom?  She!  that  woman  who  stands  behind  you 
smiling,  with  the  white  dove  perched  upon  her  whiter 


90  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

hand.  Times  have  changed,  my  girl,  since  you  and  I  last 
saw  each  other!  Well,  well!  You  are  the  same,  whatever 
I  may  be!" 

She  laughed,  a  deep,  melodious  ha,  ha,  ha!  not  at  all 
like  the  laughter  of  everyday  people.  Even  P.  C.  Breagh, 
inexperienced  as  he  was  in  such  matters,  recognized  it  as 
the  artificial  laughter  of  the  stage.  And,  profiting  by  the 
momentary  confusion  of  the  functionary,  she  swept  in 
her  silken  rags  toward  the  person  indicated;  who  looked 
back  at  her  with  beautiful  stagey  eyes  from  a  life-sized 
canvas,  wearing  a  stage  costume ;  standing  in  a  pose  of  the 
theater ;  fondling  the  bird  that  was  palpably  a  property  of 
the  scene. 

A  long  gilt-framed  mirror  hung  beside  the  portrait,  and 
to  this  she  pointed  with  the  tattered  remnants  of  her  the- 
atrical manner,  exclaiming  with  another  of  the  stage 
laughs : 

"Look  upon  this  picture  and  on  that!  Ye  gods!  .  .  ." 
Adding,  as  the  guardian  of  the  vestibule,  now  wroth,  ad- 
vanced upon  her:  "No!  Don't  you  hustle  me.  I'm  off, 
governor!  Farewell.  Ta-ta! — until  we  meet  again!" 

She  was  gone,  but  she  must  have  noted  the  boy  who 
stared,  fascinated  by  her  haggard  beauty  and  her  dreadful 
misery.  In  fact,  P.  C.  Breagh,  passing  on,  had  barely 
traversed  a  dozen  yards  of  slushy  pavement,  before,  with 
a  bound  and  rush,  a  supple  movement,  predatory  and  feline, 
the  woman  emerged  from  an  alley,  and  was  by  his  side. 

"Who  are  you?  A  waif,  like  me?  Where  do  you  come 
from  ?  I  saw  you  looking  at  me  with  all  your  eyes  and  your 
heart  in  them! — I  played  that  scene  with  the  picture  and 

the  mirror  for  you!  You  know She  took  P.  C. 

Breagh 's  reluctant  arm  and  leaned  to  his  ear,  being  taller 
than  he  was,  "There's  always  one  person  in  the  house  you 
play  to — and  when  that  person 's  not  there — the  inspiration 
doesn't  come.  When  it  won't,  you — shall  I  tell  you  what 
you  do  if  God  hasn't  made  you  able  to  say  'No'  to  them? 
— you  send  out  the  devils  to  fetch  you  brandy  and  cham- 
pagne!" 

She  laughed  wildly  and  looked  round  suspiciously. 

"Walk  fast!  A  policeman's  behind  us,  shadowing  us. 
I'll  tell  you  my  story  as  we  go.  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
Anabel  Foltringham?  You  must  have!  Everybody  has! 
I  drew  crowds  to  that  theater  you  've  seen  me  kicked  out  of ! 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  91 

— I  was  beautiful — great — famous!  Men  gloated  over  my 
beauty — they  hung  upon  my  every  word.  That  made  the 
devils  jealous — the  smooth,  servile,  obsequious  devils  in 
white  aprons,  that  you  find  behind  the  scenes  at  every 
theater.  They  call  them  dressers,  but  I  know  better,  you 
can't  deceive  me!  You  boy,  I  like  your  face!  You  look 
at  me  as  if  I  were  a  Christian,  and  a  man  I  knew  had  eyes 
like  yours !  .  .  .  Don 't  leave  me !  I  '11  make  it  worth 
your  while  to  stay,  only  listen!  ...  I'll  teach  you  all  I 
know,  make  you  a  greater  artist  than  any  of  them.  For 
the  things  that  you  shall  learn  from  me — I  learned  myself 
—in  Hell!" 

She  hung  upon  the  boy 's  wincing  arm,  her  terrible  breath 
scorched  him,  her  burned-out  eyes  appalled — her  greedy, 
long-nailed  clutch  found  his  flesh  through  his  sleeve  like 
the  talons  of  a  beast  of  prey.  And  he  wrenched  himself 
free,  and  fled,  sick  at  heart ;  fancying  that  the  old  boot  and 
shoe  were  running  after  him,  and  that  the  mud-trimmed 
silk  gown  flapped  at  his  hurrying  heels  like  leathery  wings. 

He  broke  into  his  shilling  to  pass  the  turnstile  of  Water- 
loo Bridge,  stowed  himself  in  a  corner  of  one  of  the  seated 
niches,  and  found  relief  in  the  presence  of  a  stray  kitten, 
sore-footed,  hungry-eyed,  ginger-haired,  that  rubbed  against 
his  legs  and  responded  with  appreciative  purrs  to  his  ten- 
tative back-strokings  and  ear-rubbings,  administered  half- 
unconsciously,  as  he  wondered  why  human  beings — under 
certain  given  circumstances,  should  be  so  much  more 
beastly  than  the  brutes  ? 

The  kitten  jumped  on  his  knee.  He  saw  that  its  fur  had 
been  torn — probably  by  a  dog — and  shuddered  at  the  re- 
membrance of  having  more  than  once  set  a  rough-haired 
terrier — a  companion  of  his  early  boyhood — to  worry  stray 
cats — and  enjoyed  the  carnage  resulting.  Why  did  he 
shudder  now?  Because  by  a  feat  of  imagination  only 
possible  to  one  who  was  beginning  to  learn  what  it  is  to  be 
homeless  and  hunted  and  desperate,  he  had  got  inside  the 
ginger  kitten's  ragged  skin,  and  established  between  him- 
self and  what  we  are  content  to  call  inferior  creatures  a 
bond  of  brotherhood. 

"Don't  you  go,  Kitty!  though  I  can't  make  it  much 
worth  your  while  to  stop,"  he  muttered.  "If  I'd  got  the 
things — a  scrap  of  lint  and  a  saucer  of  clean  water,  a 
needleful  of  silk  and  a  dab  of  carbolic  ointment — I  could 


92 

patch  up  that  tear — you'd  be  as  good  as  new  inside  of  a 
week. ' ' 

He  yawned,  and  the  tramp  of  booted  feet  and  the  shuffle 
of  naked  ones  grew  faint  in  his  ears ;  and  presently  the  rush 
and  roar  of  the  Bridge  roadway-traffic  dulled  to  a  hum — 
and  he  was  deadly  sleepy.  "With  blundering  fingers  he 
undid  two  buttons  of  the  frieze  greatcoat  and  tucked  the 
kitten  inside — and  after  turning  round  three  times,  and 
making  a  great  parade  of  clawing  the  surface  soft  enough 
for  comfort,  it  curled  up  and  fell  asleep,  and  its  host  not 
only  slept,  but  snored. 

Even  in  sleep  he  was  dogged  and  haunted  by  those  three 
tragic  figures; — the  broken-down  vivcur,  the  child  dying 
on  gin,  the  lost  creature  who  had  once  been  Anabel  Fol- 
tringham — they  cropped  up  in  his  troubled  dreams,  over 
and  over  again.  And  he  woke  up,  and  it  was  dark,  and  a 
sleety  rain  was  stinging  him,  and  even  the  kitten  in  his 
breast  was  cold  and  cried. 

He  got  up,  aching  and  stiff,  hungry  and  thirsty,  realizing 
that  he  must  have  slept  for  hours.  Big  Ben  boomed 
twelve.  A  midnight  express  from  Charing  Cross  dragged 
its  chain  of  yellow  lights  across  the  railway  bridge  with 
a  hollow  roar  and  rattle.  One  or  two  shapes  passed, 
vaguely  human  in  the  wintry  darkness;  a  Post  Office  van 
or  so,  with  an  official  inside  sorting  bags  by  the  light  of  a 
swinging  lantern,  three  or  four  crawling  cabs,  a  trolley 
with  a  formless  mass  upon  it,  pushed  by  two  indistinct, 
slow-moving  figures,  coming  from  the  Surrey  side. 

Toward  the  Strandward  end  of  the  Bridge  there  was 
a  light,  with  murky  figures  moving  about  it.  Revealed 
by  its  two  flaring  naphtha-lamps,  the  characteristic  hostelry 
of  the  London  gutters,  with  its  gaudy  paint  and  patriotic 
decorations,  its  clean  shelves  piled  up  with  homely  food, 
and  hung  with  common  crockery,  its  steaming  urns  of  hot 
and  comforting  drink, — proved  a  Godsend  to  one  more 
hungry  and  homeless  vagrant. 

The  shipwrecked  mariner  of  his  analogy  might  have 
known  the  same  sense  of  relief,  seeing  his  signal  answered 
and  some  stout  vessel,  flying  the  red  ensign  of  the  British 
Mercantile  Marine,  bearing  down  upon  his  tiny,  wave- 
washed  raft.  .  .  .  P.  C.  Breagh  was  guilty  of  prodigality 
at  that  coffee-stall.  A  penny  cup  of  coffee,  weak,  but  hot, 
and  a  twopenny  sandwich,  consisting  of  two  slices  of  bread 


93 

smeared  with  mustard  and  inclosing  something  by  courtesy 
called  ham,  but  really  pertaining  to  that  less  stylish  part 
of  the  pig  known  as  "gammon,"  took  the  edge  off  his 
savage  appetite.  A  ha'porth  of  milk  for  the  kitten,  and 
another  ha  'porth  of  ham-trimmings,  left  him  lord  of  seven- 
pence  halfpenny  cash. 

Thus,  warmed  and  cheered,  he  went  back  to  his  seat  in 
the  niche  again,  noting  that  every  stone  bench  he  passed 
had  now  its  seated  group,  or  prone  extended  figures.  His 
recently  vacated  place  had  its  occupant,  a  thin,  barefooted 
young  man,  indescribably  ragged ;  who  slept  with  his  fam- 
ished face — sharp  and  yellow  as  a  wedge  of  cheese — turned 
to  the  sky,  and  the  Adam's  apple  of  his  lean  throat  jerking, 
as  though  something  alive,  swallowed  inadvertently,  was 
madly  struggling  to  get  out. 

And  as  he  leaned  upon  the  eastward  parapet  of  the 
Bridge  with  the  ginger  kitten,  now  replete  and  happy, 
purring  on  his  shoulder,  and  watched  the  wild  welter  of 
black  water,  pale-patched  with  foam  and  spume,  rushing 
away  beneath  him,  to  plunge  growling  through  the  arches 
of  Blackfriars  Bridge,  and  speed  away  under  Southwark 
and  London  Bridges,  past  the  Custom  House,  Traitor's  Gate 
and  the  Docks,  between  Wapping  and  Rotherhithe  on  its 
way  to  Greenwich  and  Poplar  and  Blackwell;  and  thence, 
by  the  verdant  heights  of  Charlton  to  Woolwich,  widening 
to  a  mile  here;  and  so  on  past  Gravesend  and  the  Nore 
Light  to  where  it  flows  between  Whitstable  and  Foulness 
Point — eighteen  miles  broad ;  a  kingly  river,  carrying  on  its 
back  the  commerce  of  the  world. 

The  wind  blew  bitter  cold  from  the  heights  of  Hamp- 
stead.  A  livid  moon  blinked  through  rifts  in  ink-black 
cloud-wrack  above  the  Shot  Towers  and  a  huge  mass  of 
brewery-buildings  on  the  right.  On  the  left,  revealed  in 
glimpses  and  suggestions  by  stray  moonbeams  and  wind- 
blown lamp-flares,  was  a  great  confusion  of  trucks  and 
trolleys;  huge  cranes  rearing  skeleton  arms  aloft,  colossal 
cauldrons,  heaps  of  clay  beside  yawning  trenches,  winking 
red  eyes  of  warning  for  belated  wanderers.  All  this  be- 
yond a  banking-face  of  stone  masonry  with  completed  piers, 
showed  where  the  Victoria  Embankment  would  be  by-and- 
by.  Meanwhile  chaos  reigned;  the  area  would  have  been 
an  appropriate  playground  for  the  inhabitants  of  Bethlem 
Hospital,  in  hours  of  relaxation,  or  on  national  holidays. 


94  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

P.  C.  Breagh  laughed  gallantly  at  his  own  conceit,  and 
his  chapped  lips  cracked  and  hurt  him.  He  staunched  the 
bleeding  with  his  handkerchief,  conscious  that  a  day  might 
come  when  he  should  cease  to  have  any  use  for  such  an 
article.  Habits  die  hard  with  us,  but  the  cleanly  ones  go 
first,  being  acquired.  We  continue  to  desire  food  and 
drink  long  after  we  have  left  off  caring  about  the  color  of 
our  linen — nay!  long  after  we  have  become  indifferent  to 
the  fact  that  we  wear  no  linen  at  all. 

He  was  bone-weary;  his  thigh-bones  seemed  wearing 
through  their  sockets.  His  knees  ached,  his  feet  were 
heavy  as  solid  lumps  of  lead.  It  occurred  to  him  that  the 
two  things  most  desirable  on  earth  were  an  arm-chair  and 
a  roasting  fire  to  toast  before.  Failing  that,  a  seat  on  a 
stone  bench,  with  a  north  wind  gnawing  you  was  better 
than  nothing.  .  .  .  He  thought  that  by  now  one  of  the 
sleepers  in  the  niches  would  have  wakened  up  and  moved 
on. 

Vain  hope.  "Where  one  had  withdrawn,  his  place  had 
been  filled  by  three  newcomers.  Misery,  Dirt,  Drunken- 
ness, Disease,  and  Wretchedness  herded  in  those  stony 
refuges,  mercifully  winked  at  by  the  patroling  policeman 
with  the  unsavory-smelling  bull's-eye.  And  strange  be- 
ings perambulated  or  crept  the  pavement;  2  a.  m.  is  the 
time  when  you  may  see  them! — emerging  from  the  foul 
hiding-places  where  they  pass  the  daylight  hours,  to  wan- 
der forth  unseen.  .  .  . 

Such  goblin  forms,  such  Gorgon  faces,  revealed  by  some 
fitful  ray  of  watery  moonlight,  or  the  lamp  of  a  languid, 
belated  cab.  ...  It  was  a  waking  nightmare,  a  Dantesque 
vision  realized,  inconceivably  hideous  to  nerves  already 
weakening.  The  Celtic  strain  derived  from  his  father,  in 
conjunction  with  the  sensitive  romantic  nature  bequeathed 
by  Milly  Fermeroy,  might  have  urged  their  son  to  end 
things  that  bleak  January  night,  with  a  leap  from  the 
parapet  and  a  plunge  into  the  wild  black  welter  tumbling 
under  the  Bridge  arches.  But  P.  C.  Breagh  was  not  fated 
to  join  the  procession  of  grim,  unconscious  voyagers,  that 
wallow  in  the  tides  and  circle  in  the  eddies,  flounder  under 
the  sides  of  barges,  beat  upon  the  piles  and  bridge-piers, 
and  sink  to  slumber  in  the  river-sludge  a  while,  before  they 
rise,  more  dreadful  than  before,  to  journey  on  again.  .  .  . 

His   mother's  faith  plucked  him  as  before,   from  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  95 

desperate  brink  of  the  temptation ;  and — he  had  worked  in 
the  dissecting-rooms  and  walked  the  hospitals,  toward  that 
end  of  failure  previously  recorded, — and  the  hardening  did 
yeoman 's  service  now.  But  it  went  badly  with  him — at  one 
period  of  that  week-long  night  particularly.  .  .  .  He  never 
liked  to  speak  of  that  experience.  .  .  .  But  long,  long 
afterward  he  said  to  one  who  loved  him: 

' '  I  held  on  to  my  reason,  and  prayed  Our  Lord  for  day- 
light. And — I  don't  know  how  I  managed — but  somehow,  I 
got  through ! ' ' 

He  found  a  seat  at  length,  not  knowing  by  whom  or  how 
it  had  been  vacated,  and  dropped  into  it  and  slept  like  the 
dead.  And  he  awoke  in  a  windless  lull, — to  a  strange 
bluish-yellow  radiance  in  the  sky  beyond  the  great  squat 
dome  of  St.  Paul 's  and  the  crowding  chimneys  of  the  City : 
and  felt  the  stir  and  thrill  and  quiver  that  is  the  sign  of 
this  sad  world's  waking  to  yet  another  day. 

Three  homeless  women  shared  the  seat  with  him.  Two 
were  awake,  watching  him  not  unkindly.  A  third  slept, 
leaning  forward  in  a  huddled  attitude,  propped  by  the 
handle  of  a  basket  she  held  upon  her  knees.  She  breathed 
in  whistling  squeals, — a  night  on  Waterloo  Bridge  in  Janu- 
ary encourages  bronchitis.  .  .  .  He  listened  for  a  moment, 
then  with  a  prodigal  impulse,  dropped  twopence  of  his 
eightpence  into  the  basket  on  her  lap.  And  she  woke,  and 
said  with  an  Irish  accent: 

"May  the  heavens  be  yer  bed!"  and  slept  again,  heav- 

fly. 

The  second  woman  snuffled  out  in  the  accents  of  the  East 
End: 

"Gawd  bless  you,  good  gen'leman!" 

The  third  lifted  a  tattered  scarlet  head-shawl,  and  flashed 
a  pair  of  jet-black  Oriental  eyes  upon  him: 

"Fortune  and  Life!" 

To  her  he  said,  with  a  creditable  effort  at  cheeriness : 

"I've  lost  the  fortune,  mother!  the  life's  about  all  I've 
got  that's  left  to  me!" 

"And  a  good  thing  too,  my  gorgious!  Don't  yer  com- 
plain of  it!  Come,  tip  us  yer  vast!"  She  added,  as  he 
stared  uncomprehending — "Right  or  left-hand  dook — • 
whichever  the  Line's  brightest  in.  Have  yer  a — No!  I'll 
give  yer  of  my  jinnepen  for  naught!" 

He  held  out  the  broad,  strong  palm,  grimy  enough  by; 


96  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

dawn-light.  She  peered,  spat  on  the  chilly  gray  pavement 
and  said : 

"You  keep  up  heart — there's  a  change  a-coming  soon!" 

' '  Can 't  come  too  soon  for  me ! "    His  smile  was  rueful. 

"Keep  up  heart,  I  tell  yer!"  she  bade  him.  "Yer '11 
travel  a  long  road  and  a  bloody  road,  and  yer'll  tramp  it 
with  the  one  yer  love,  and  never  know  it.  Until  the  end, 
that  is,  when  tute  is  jasing.  And  there's  a  finer  fortune 
than  I  meant  yer  to  get  o '  me !  Shake  her  up,  Bet ! ' '  She 
explained,  as  the  other  woman  turned  to  rouse  the  sleeper, 
"Taken  a  great  cold,  she  has!  We're  fetching  her  to  the 
Hospital.  Tholomewses  in  Smithell,  for  the  gorgio  doc- 
tors to  make  her  well.  Though  that's  not  where  I  would 
lie,  my  rye,  and  my  pipes  playing  the  death-tune.  Shoon 
tu,  dilya !  Better  shake  her  again ! ' ' 

"Wake  up,  deer!    There's  a  good  soul!" 

They  stood  up,  supporting  the  bronchial  Irishwoman 
between  them,  shaking  and  straightening  their  frowsy 
garments — tidying  themselves  as  the  poorest  women  wilL 
Then  with,  a.  farewell  word  they  moved  on,  northward. 
And  P.  C.  Breagh,  following  them  with  reddened,  night- 
weary  eyes,  saw  his  Fate  coming,  though  he  did  not 
know  it,  in  the  person  of  a  small  and  shabbily-attired 
elderly  man. 


XIY 

HE  came  striding  from  the  Strand  side,  in  a  red-hot  hurry, 
making  as  much  noise  with  his  boots  as  three  ordinary 
pedestrians.  He  wore  no  overcoat,  but  was  buttoned  up 
in  a  decent  black  serge  frock,  having  his  throat  protected 
by  a  large  white  cashmere  wrapper.  Also  he  wore  gray 
mixture  trousers,  rather  baggy  at  the  knees,  and  shiny, 
and  was  crowned  with  a  well-worn  silk  top-hat. 

He  walked  at  a  great  pace,  swinging  his  arms,  which  were 
inordinately  lengthy,  and  finished  with  hands  of  extra  size, 
encased  in  white  knitted  woolen  bags  not  distantly  re- 
sembling boxing-gloves.  When  he  reached  the  middle  of 
the  Bridge,  he  stopped  and  backed  against  the  west  parapet, 
folded  his  arms,  and, — or  so  it  seemed  to  P.  C.  Breagh,  who 
was  watching  him  for  the  sole  reason  that  he  happened  to 


THE    MAN    OF,   IRON  97 

be  the  only  cheerful-looking,  decently-clad  human  being 
within  his  range  of  vision — snuffed  the  breeze,  and  con- 
sidered the  prospect  with  a  consciously-possessive  air.  In 
moving  his  head  sideways,  so  as  to  extend  his  view,  his 
sharp  black  glance  encountered  that  of  his  neighbor,  and 
he  nodded,  and  thus  their  acquaintance  began. 

"I'm  glad  to  see,  young  gentleman,"  said  the  little  man 
— and  "My  eye!  Do  I  still  look  like  anything  of  that  sort?" 
was  the  young  gentleman 's  unvoiced  aside :  "  I  'm  glad  to 
see  that  you  don 't  number  one  among  the  many  thousands 
— if  I  was  to  say  Millions  I  shouldn't  be  guilty  of  exag- 
geration— who  under-estimate  the  value  of  fresh  morning 
air.  For  my  part,  without  boasting,  I  may  call  myself  a 
walking  Monument  to  its  healthiness,  or  as  you  can't  put 
up  a  monument  to  a  live  man — I'll  say,  a  Living  Testi- 
monial. ' ' 

He  had  a  yellow,  tight-drawn,  wearied  skin,  with  a  patch 
of  rather  hectic  red  on  either  cheekbone,  and  his  bright 
black  eyes  twinkled  at  the  bottom  of  hollow  orbits,  over- 
shadowed by  shaggy  eyebrows  of  the  deepest  black.  When 
he  took  off  his  hat  to  cool  his  head,  from  which  quite  a 
cloud  of  steam  arose,  you  could  perceive  that  he  was 
baldish,  and  that  his  bristly  hair  and  large  mutton-chop 
side-whiskers  owed,  like  his  shaggy  eyebrows,  their  intense 
and  aggressive  blackness  to  a  conscientious  but  unskillful 
dyer,  for  by  the  cold  and  searching  light  of  morning,  deli- 
cate nuances  of  green  and  purple  were  seen  to  mingle  with 
their  youthful  sable,  and  here  and  there  the  roots  showed 
grayish-white. 

' '  I  was  given  up  by  the  Doctors  at  the  age  of  twenty, '  * 
said  the  little  man,  "as  I  had  been  previously  give  up  by 
'em  at  eleven  and  fifteen.  'The  boy's  in  Rapid  Decline,' 
says  one,  'keep  him  out  o'  drafts  and  give  him  boiled 
snails  and  asses'  milk.'  My  poor  mother  did  her  best, 
stopping  up  window-cracks  with  paste  and  paper,  and 
stuffing  chimneys  with  old  carpets.  And  living  as  we  was 
at  Hampstead  Village,  and  the  Heath  being  productive  in 
snails  and  donkeys,  the  rest  o'  the  prescription  was  easy 
to  carry  out.  Still  I  got  lankier  and  went  on  coughing  o' 
nights.  Says  Doctor  Number  Two,  'It's  a  case  of  Gallop- 
ing Consumption.  Feed  him  up,  clothe  him  warmly,  en- 
courage him  to  take  gentle  exercise,  and  avoid  chills  what- 


98  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

ever  yon  do!'  So  my  mother  swadged  me  up  in  flannel, 
made  me  eat  a  mutton  chop  every  two  hours,  and  trot  up 
and  down  the  front-garden  for  exercise  between  chops; 
and  she'd  pour  half-a-pint  o'  porter  down  me  whenever  I 
stood  still.  And  in  spite  of  all  her  affectionate  solicitude," 
said  the  little  man  with  a  twinkle,  ' '  I  kep '  on  wasting,  and 
coughing  and  spitting,  and  doing  everything  that  a  young 
fellow  in  a  galloping  consumption  could  do,  short  of  gal- 
loping out  o '  this  world  into  another.  And  Doctor  Number 
Three  says, — being  called  in  when  I  was  twenty:  'It's 
phthisis  pulmonalis  in  the  advanced  and  incurable  stage. 
You  can  do  nothing  at  all  for  this  young  man  but  get  him 
into  an  Institute  for  Incurables.  Codliver  Oil,  Care,  and 
Kindness,'  so  says  he,  'may  prolong  his  miserable  ex- 
istence a  month  or  two.  For  the  rest,  there 's  nothing  to  be 
done!'  If  you'll  believe  me,  that  news  was  the  death  of 
my  poor  mother.  She'd  expected  nothing  else  for  years — 
and  yet  it  killed  her  at  the  end!  And  I  acted  as  Chief 
Mourner  at  her  funeral,"  ended  the  little  man  with  a 
queer  twist  of  his  lean,  sharp  jaws  and  a  momentary 
dimming  of  his  keen  black  eyes,  "in  the  pouring  rain, 
and  walked  home  without  an  overcoat — and  got  wet  to  the 
skin,  and  stripped,  and  rubbed  myself  dry,  and  made  a 
rough  supper  of  scalding  oatmeal  porridge,  and  went  to 
bed  and  slep'  with  the  windows  open  top  and  bottom. 
And  that  was  over  thirty  years  ago,  and  I  've  never  missed 
my  morning  sponge-over  with  cold  water  since ;  nor  never 
shut  a  window  night  or  day,  nor  never  run  up  a  doctor's 
bill,  and  don't  mean  to!  I  left  off  coddling — once  the 
blessed  old  soul  was  gone !  Got  better — better  still — always 
expected  to  die  by  those  who'd  knowed  mother.  I  trav- 
eled and  saw  Foreign  Parts, — not  specially  going  about 
to  pick  the  'ealthiest  climates,  knocked  about  abroad— 
came  home  and  took  to  Business,  and  have  taken  to  it  ever 
since,  as  you  may  see.  My  health  is  robust,"  he  made  a 
show  of  hitting  his  chest  again,  but  thought  better  of  it. 
"I  live  plain,  and  make  a  point  of  getting  Fresh  Air  into 
my  system  whenever  possible. — This  is  the  place  I  come  to, 
as  a  rule,  for  the  morning's  supply.  I  take  it  on  Black- 
friars  Bridge  after  the  dinner-hour,  the  eating-house  I 
patronize  being  on  Ludgate  Hill,"  he  added.  "And — I 
don't  know  whether  you  happen  to  be  a  student  of  old 
Bill  Shakespeare,  but  there  are  some  lines  of  his  which 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  99 

might  be  twisted  into  applying  to  me."  He  drew  a  deep 
breath  and  delivered  himself  as  follows: 

"Some  are  born  Tough,  some  achieve  Toughness — others 
have  Toughness  thrust  upon  them." 

He  smote  his  chest  hard  with  a  muffled  hand,  and  coughed 
in  that  rather  hollow  fashion,  adding:  "Without  vanity, 
I  may  consider  myself  as  belonging  to  the  latter  class! 
Eh?" 

P.  C.  Breagh  agreed  that  the  speaker  might  be  consid- 
ered as  belonging  to  the  latter  class. 

"For  at  this  moment  I  am  as  fresh  as  paint,"  said  the 
little  man  proudly,  "and  as  lively  as  a  kitten,  yet  I  have 
been  up  and  about  and  on  my  legs  all  night!  I  left 
our  place  of  business  at  3.20  a.  m.,  readied  Charing  Cross 
by  3.30,  was  on  the  platform  when  the  Dover  Boat  Train 
steamed  in — bringing  mails  and  passengers  that  have 
crossed  in  the  Night  Boat  from  Cally — took  over  a  short- 
hand report  from  a  Special  Correspondent — who  has  been 
to  Paris  to  gather  details  of  a  political  murder, ' '  he  tapped 
the  breast  of  his  black  frock-coat,  which  showed  the  bulging 
outline  of  a  thick  notebook.  "And  in  the  absence  of  our 
News  Editor — who's  been  sent  to  Brummagem  to  report 
Mr.  Bright 's  speech  on  Popular  Education,  Irish  Ameliora- 
tion, and  Free  Trade, — Parliamentary  affairs  being  at  a 
standstill  this  holiday  season, — I  shall  hand  'em  to  the 
Senior  Sub.,  who'll  distribute  the  stuff  and  have  it  set  up 
by  the  time  the  Chief  drops  in  from  Putney  at  eleven.  It's 
for  to-morrow's  issue,  following  the  ten-line  telegram  we 
publish  this  morning.  A  colurnn-and-a-half  of  Latest  In- 
telligence ! ' '  the  little  man  screwed  up  his  eyes  and  licked 
his  lips  as  though  reveling  in  the  flavor  of  some  rare 
gastronomic  delicacy.  "And  if  I  had  the  say  as  to  the 
setting  of  it — which  I  haven't! — and  was  free  to  indulge 
my  predilection  for  showy  printing — which  I  never  shall 
be ! — it  should  be  headed  with  caps  an  inch  high — and 
spaced  and  leaded  all  the  way  down." 

His  black  eyes  snapped :  his  hectic  cheeks  grew  fiery. 

' '  Headed  with  inch-high  caps,  ah !  and  spaced  and  leaded 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom.  Fancy  how  it  'ud  lay  siege 
to  the  Public  Eye,  and  draw  the  Public's  coppers!  When 
I  shut  my  eyes  I  can  fair  see  the  editions  running  out." 

He  recited,  marking  out  the  lines  and  spaces  with  a 
finger  encased  in  white  woolen : 


100  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

'A    PRINCE    MURDERS 

ONE   MAN  AND 

FIRES   AT   ANOTHER 

IN  HIS  OWN 

GILDED  DRAWING-ROOM. 
PARIS   SENSATION. 

COUSIN  OP 

THE  FRENCH  EMPEROR  KILLS 
A   JOURNALIST 

ON  THE  VERT  DAY    WHEN 

THE   FRENCH   LEGISLATIVE 
BODY 

MEET  TO  INAUGURATE   THE  NEW  ERA 
OF   CONSTITUTIONAL   GOVERNMENT 

UNDER   NAPOLEON   III. 

His  eyes  snapped,  his  hectic  cheeks  flamed,  he  was  evi- 
dently launched  on  a  subject  that  was  near  the  heart 
beating  beneath  the  bulgy  pocket-book.  He  talked  fast; 
and  as  b,e  talked  he  waved  his  arms,  and  gesticulated  with 
the  large  hands  encased  in  the  woolly  boxing-gloves. 

"I  cherish  ambitions,  perhaps  you'll  say,  above  my 
calling,  which  I  don't  mind  owning  is  that  of  Newspaper 
Publishers'  "Warehouseman.  Perhaps  I  do — perhaps  I 
don't!  My  own  opinion  is  I'm  before  my  time,  a  kind  of 
Anachronism  the  wrong  way  round,"  said  the  little  man 
rather  ruefully,  "and  rightly  belong  to — say  forty  years 
hence.  As  the  poet  Shakespeare  says,  and  if  it  wasn  't  him 
it  ought  to  have  been!  'Sweet  are  the  uses  of  Advertise- 
ment. '  I  'm  a  believer  in  Advertisement,  always  have  been 
and  always  shall  be ! " 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  101 

His  garrulity  was  an  individual  and  not  unpleasant  trait, 
implying  confidence  in  others '  sympathy.  He  went  on : 

' '  Being  Nobody  in  particular,  my  views  have  never  been 
took  up  and  acted  on.  Though  I  enjoy  a  good  deal  of 
confidence  and  am — I  hope  I  am! — respected  in  my  place. 
For  as  Solomon  said,  somewhere  in  Proverbs — 'Designs 
are  strengthened  by  counsels, '  and  our  Chief  himself  hasn  't 
been  too  proud  to  say,  on  occasion :  '  Knewbit,  what  would 
you  do  in  this  or  that  case?'  Such  as  you  see  me,  I  am 
often  at  the  'Ouse  of  Commons,  when  sittings  are  late  and 
speeches  have  to  be  jotted  down  in  mouthfuls  and  carried 
away  and  set  up  in  snacks.  .  .  .  For  my  constitution  is  of 
that  degree  of  toughness — sleep  or  no  sleep  matters  little 
to  me,  and  that  I  am  as  fresh  at  this  moment  as  you  are, ' ' 
he  bit  off  the  end  of  a  yawn,  "I  wouldn't  mind  betting  a 
sixpence  now!" 

Said  P.  C.  Breagh,  at  last  getting  in  a  word  edge- 
ways : 

' '  If  you  lost — and  you  would  lose ! — and  paid — and  I  ex- 
pect you  'd  pay ! — my  capital  would  be  doubled.  I  'm  not  a 
young  swell  who  has  got  up  early  to  look  at  London.  I'm 
a  vagrant  on  the  streets — and  it  strikes  me  I  must  look 
like  it.  To-day  I've  got  to  find  work  of  some  kind.  Can 
you  give  me  a  job  in  your  warehouse?  I'm  strong  and 
willing  and  honest — up  to  now!  But  by  G — !  if  stealing 
a  bunch  of  turnips  off  a  costermonger  's  barrow  will  get  me 
a  full  belly  and  a  clean  bed  in  prison,  I  expect  I  shall  have 
to  do  it  before  long,  if  I  can 't  find  work  anywhere ! ' ' 

' '  Bless  my  soul ! ' '  said  the  garrulous  little  man  ex- 
citedly. "And  I  thought  you  were  a  Medical  Student  or 
an  artist  (some  of  'em  aren't  over-given  to  clothes-brushes 
and  soap-and-water),  and  here  I  stood  a-jawing  and  you 
starving  all  the  time  !  .  .  .  Work — of  course  you  shall  have 
work,  though  I  can't  promise  it'll  be  the  kind  o'  work  that's 
fit  for  an  educated  young  gentleman " 

"Any  work  is  fit  for  a  gentleman,"  snarled  P.  C.  Breagh, 
"that  a  decent  man  can  do!  What  I  want  is " 

"What  you  want  is — Breakfast  and  a  wash  and  brush- 
up!"  cried  the  little  man  excitedly.  "And  that  you  must 
go  to  Miss  Ling  and  get.  Say  Mr.  Knewbit  sent  you — I  'm 
Knewbit, — Christian  name  Solomon.  It's  No.  288  Great 
Coram  Street — second  turn  to  your  right  above  Russell 


102  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Square.  Cross  the  Strand  and  go  up  Wellington  Street  and 
Bow  Street,  cross  Long  Acre  and  .  .  .  but  you  're  too  dead- 
beat  to  walk  it.  Take  a  growler — it'll  be  eighteenpence 
from  here  unless  the  cabby 's  lost  to  every  sense  of  decency. 
Borrow  the  money  from  me — here  it  is!  I  give  you  my 
word  you  shall  be  able  to  pay  me  back  to-morrow.  Here 
is  a  cab !  Hi !  Phew  'w ! "  Mr.  Knewbit  whistled  scientifi- 
cally, and  the  preternaturally  red-nosed  driver  of  an  old 
and  jingling  four-wheeler  pulled  up  beside  the  curb  as 
P.  C.  Breagh  stammered  out: 

"I — I  can't  thank!  .  .  .  You're  too  confoundedly 
kind !  .  .  .  and  I  'd  begun  to  think  that  all  men  were  thieves 
or  scoundrels — except  a  poor,  sick  beggar  of  a  swell  I  met 
yesterday,  whose  wife  and  children  shun  him  and  whose 
valet  bullies  him!  I  can't  refuse,  you  know!  .  .  .  Things 
are  too  ..." 

"The  fare  will  be  two  shillings  if  you  talk  one  minute 
longer!"  warned  Mr.  Knewbit,  opening  the  door  of  the 
straw-carpeted,  moldy-smelling  vehicle.  "I  can  see  ex- 
tortion in  that  man's  eye.  I'm  a  judge  of  character,  that's 
what  I  am.  Bless  my  soul !  Is  that  kitten  yours  ? ' ' 

For  the  ginger  Tom,  with  arched  back  and  erect  tail,  was 
walking  round  P.  C.  Breagh 's  legs,  purring  insinuatingly, 
and  his  companion  of  the  night's  vigil  said  hesitatingly, 
looking  at  the  meager,  homeless  mite : 

' '  He  seems  to  think  so !  And — he  helped  me  through 
last  night.  Would  you  mind  if  I  took  him?  I'll  pay  for 
his  keep  as  soon  as  ever  I " 

Mr.  Knewbit  shouted  in  a  violent  hurry : 

"In  with  you!  Cat  and  all!  Don't  apologize!  Miss 
Ling  adores  'em!  Three  in  the  house  already — waste  bits 
left  on  the  dustbin  for  needy  strangers.  Don't  forget! 
288  Great  Coram  Street,  Russell  Square.  Drive  on, 
cabby!" 

He  added,  dancing  up  and  down  excitedly  on  the  pave- 
ment, as  the  jingling  four-wheeler  rolled  on,  with  the  pair 
of  castaways : 

"Lord!  if  I  only  had  the  setting  up  of  that  young  fel- 
low's story,  how  I  would  give  it  'em  in  leaded  capitals!" 

He  closed  his  eyes  in  ecstasy  and  saw,  in  large  black 
letters  standing  out  across  the  clear  horizon  of  the  new 
day  to  which  London  was  waking : 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  103 

LONDON   DRAMA. 

BEGGARED   HEIR   TO   WEALTH 

ROBBED. 

CAST  ON  THE  STREETS! 
SOLE  COMPANION  A  KITTEN! 

PATHETIC  STORY. 

"Not  that  I  know  he  is  the  heir  to  wealth,  but  it  looks 
well,  uncommon!  Uncommon  well,  it  looks!"  said  Mr. 
Knewbit. 


XV 

WHEN  the  Editorial  Staff  of  the  Early  Wire  had  gone 
home,  or  to  the  Club,  by  cab  or  private  brougham  or  on 
foot,  in  the  blackest  hours  of  the  night  or  the  smallest 
hours  of  the  morning;  when  the  Printing  Staff  had  filed 
out,  pale  and  respectably  attired,  or  thundered  down  the 
iron-shod  staircases  in  grimy,  inky,  oily  deshabille,  then  the 
Publishing  Staff  trooped  in  and  took  possession.  And,  as 
the  lines  of  carts  backed  up  to  the  curb,  and  were  filled  by 
brawny  shirt-sleeved  men,  who  tossed  the  huge  bales  of 
newspapers  from  hand  to  hand  with  the  nonchalant  skill 
of  jugglers  doing  tricks  with  willow-pattern  plates  and 
oranges,  the  Business  Department  began  to  empty  so  much 
that  you  could  see  the  eyebrows  of  clerks  behind  the  iron- 
nailed  unplaned  deal  counters;  and  Mr.  Knewbit,  slacken- 
ing in  his  terrific  energy,  would  cease  keeping  count,  and 
tallying,  and  writing  cabalistic  signs  on  huge  packages  with 
the  stump  of  blue  pencil  that  never  was  used  up.  And  he 
would  mop  his  face  and  say — in  the  same  invariable  for- 
mula: 

"Well!  we've  broke  the  back  of  the  day's  work,  and 
lucky  if  no  one  can  say  no  worse  of  us ! " 

Later  on,  when  the  last  newspaper-cart  had  been  gorged 
and  rattled  away,  and  the  last  newspaper-boy  had  darted 
out  with  his  armful,  and  his  mouth  open  for  the  yell  that 
would  issue  from  it  the  moment  his  bare  feet  hit  the  pave- 


104  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

ment  of  Fleet  Street,  and  the  office  of  the  Early  Wire  and 
all  the  other  offices  that  had  got  off  the  Morning  Issue  had 
an  air  of  dozing  with  blinking  eyes  and  mouths  half  open — 
when  the  Evening  Papers  were  at  the  height  of  strenuous 
effort, — Mr.  Knewbit  would  arrange  the  limited  supply 
of  hair  remaining  on  his  cranium  with  a  pocket-comb, 
titivate  his  whiskers  by  the  aid  of  a  tiny  scrap  of  looking- 
glass  nailed  inside  his  desk-lid,  dust  the  blacks  off  his 
collar,  straighten  his  cravat — which  boasted  a  breastpin 
that  was  an  oval  plaque  of  china,  painted  with  a  miniature 
of  a  young  lady  with  flowing  ringlets,  rosy  cheeks,  white 
arms  and  shoulders,  pink  legs  and  a  diaphanous  tutu, 
dancing,  crowned  with  roses  in  front  of  a  sylvan  waterfall, 
— and  betake  himself  out  to  dine. 

Sometimes  he  would  patronize  the  "Old  Cheshire 
Cheese"  chop-house,  where  they  gave  you  beefsteak  pud- 
dings on  Saturdays.  Or  "The  Cock"  would  have  his  cus- 
tom, or  he  would  drop  in  at  an  eating-house  in  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard,  where  Irish  stew,  boiled  beef  with  dumplings 
and  carrots,  or  tripe  and  onions  were  the  staple  dishes  in 
winter  months.  In  summer  you  got  roast  mutton  and 
green  peas  and  gooseberry  tart  with  custard;  but  what- 
ever the  season  or  the  dish,  it  was  always  washed  down 
with  whisky-and-water,  or  gin-and-lemonade,  or  the  strong- 
est of  strong  beer. 

For  this  particular  tavern  was  patronized  by  the  penny- 
a-liners  of  Paternoster  Row  and  the  vicinity ;  out-at-elbows, 
and  generally  seedy-looking  literary  free-lances,  who  picked 
up  a  living  by  inditing  touching  tracts  and  poignant 
pamphlets  for  religious  Societies  bearing  arresting  titles, 
such  as: 

"STOP!  You  ARE  OUT  AT  THE  GATHERS!  Or,  The 
Tale  of  a  Skirt, ' '  and  ' '  DEAD  LOCKS  FOR  LIVE  HEADS  !  By 
A  Converted  Hairdresser."  Or  biographical  accounts  of 

the  brief  lives  and  protracted  deaths  of  Little  E ,  aged 

seven,  or  Miss  Madeline  P of  X . 

Bearded  men  these,  with  bulbous  noses,  studded  with 
ruby  pimples;  full  of  strange  oaths,  reveling  in  profane 
jest  and  scurrilous  talk.  Lanky  youths  with  hollow  eyes, 
uncut  hair  and  crimson  neckties,  who  boasted  of  having 
cast  off  all  shackles,  bonds  and  fetters,  civil,  social,  moral 
and  religious,  and  dreamed  in  their  wilder  moments  of 
the  inauguration  of  a  second  British  Commonwealth,  and 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  105 

the  reign  of  a  New  Era  of  Socialism,  and  the  planting  of 
the  Tree  of  Liberty  in  Buckingham  Palace  Courtyard.  .  .  . 

And  over  their  strong  meats,  and  the  stronger  liquors 
with  which  they  moistened  them,  these  would  discuss  the 
plots  of  tracts,  and  so  forth,  seasoning  their  discourse  with 
highly-spiced  pleasantries  and  salacious  witticisms,  jesting 
in  ribald  sort  at  all  things  upon  earth  and  elsewhere ;  until 
— as  Mr.  Knewbit  frequently  said — you  expected  the  ceiling 
to  come  down  and  strike  'em  speechless,  and  fancied  you 
saw  wicked  little  hellish  names  playing  about  the  cutlery. 

"Not  that  I  ever  read  any  of  their  stuff,  you  know!" 
he  explained  to  P.  C.  Breagh,  "though  I  am  a  man  that, 
to  a  certain  extent,  might  be  considered  a  reader.  You've 
seen  my  library  on  the  shelf  by  my  bed-head,  and  though 
three  books  might  be  held — in  the  opinion  of  some  people 
— to  constitute  rather  a  limited  library,  they're  the  three 
best  books  that  ever  were  written  or  ever  will  be.  Bar 
none ! ' ' 

He  was  a  Christian  believer  himself;  of  the  easy-going, 
undenominational,  non- Church-going  kind.  And  when 
Sunday  came  round,  Miss  Ling,  after  seeing  the  beef  and 
potatoes  and  Yorkshire-pudding  safely  into  the  oven,  would 
charge  him  to  watch  over  the  same  and  guard  them  from 
burning;  and  put  on  her  best  bonnet  and  pop  over  to  the 
Christian  Mission  Army  Hall  that  used  to  be  in  Judd 
Street,  W.C.,  for  a  supply  of  red-hot  doctrine  sufficient  to 
stand  her  in  a  week  of  working-days,  while  Mr.  Knewbit 
smoked,  kept  an  eye  on  the  cooking,  and  occasionally 
dipped  into  his  library. 

A  popular  edition  of  the  Plays  and  Poems  by  one  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare,  together  with  a  stout  and  bulky  volume, 
"Gallowglass's  Encyclopedia  of  Literary  and  Typograph- 
ical Anecdote,"  and  a  worm-eaten,  black-leather-bound 
copy  of  the  Bible — as  translated  from  the  Latin  Vulgate 
and  published  by  the  English  College  at  Douay  A.D.  1609, 
formed  Mr.  Knewbit 's  library.  In  the  pages  of  these,  their 
owner  frequently  stated  it  as  his  opinion,  might  be  found 
the  finest  literature  in  the  world.  He  always  ended : 

"And  I  bought  Gallowglass  for  half-a-crown  off  a  bar- 
row in  Camberwell,  and  Shakespeare  was  give  me  by  a 
young  fellow  who  found  him  dullish  reading — and  the 
Book  that  beats  'em  both  I  picked  up  in  the  fourpenny 
box  at  a  second-hand  bookseller's  in  Clement's  Inn!" 


106  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

King  Solomon  and  the  son  of  Sirach  of  Jerusalem,  with 
the  Prophets  Isaiah  and  Hosea,  were  Mr.  Knewbit  's  favorite 
Old  Testament  authors.  Of  the  Books  of  Wisdom  and 
Ecclesiasticus  he  never  wearied.  One  wonders  how  much 
he  understood,  but  he  quarried  diligently  in  their  pages, 
and  sometimes  emerged  into  the  light  figuratively  laden 
with  jewels.  Marvelous  passages  would  drive  home  to  the 
brain  of  the  man  in  blinding  flashes  of  illumination,  and 
he  would  lose  the  place  in  his  excitement, — being  an  un- 
methodical if  omnivorous  reader, — and  never  be  able  to 
find  them  again.  ...  So  he  quoted  his  Prophets  from 
memory  and  generally  inaccurately,  yet  seldom  without 
point  or  inappropriately.  At  other  times,  wearied  with 
their  glorious  obscurity,  he  reverted  to  the  plainest  and 
simplest  of  all  the  stories  ever  written,  and  the  sweetest 
and  the  saddest  too.  .  .  . 

He  spoke  of  the  Saviour  as  though  he  had  known 
Him.  .  .  . 

"I  never  could  forgive  them  fellers" — I  conceive  he 
meant  the  Disciples — "for  cutting  off  and  leaving  Him  to 
be  pinched  by  that  gang  in  the  Garden.  It  was  mean, 
that's  what  I  call  it.  Mean!  But  I  will  say  they  owned 
up  their  shabbiness  in  their  writings  afterward.  Though 
you  notice  they  hurry  over  that  part.  And  I'm  not  sur- 
prised !  That  young  feller  downstairs  yet,  Maria  ? ' ' 

This  was  at  eight  o  'clock  on  the  Sunday  morning  follow- 
ing Mr.  Knewbit 's  meeting  with  Carolan  on  Waterloo 
Bridge.  Miss  Ling,  stepping  nimbly  about  the  big  front 
kitchen  in  the  basement,  busy  with  her  task  of  getting 
breakfast,  returned  that ' '  Mr.  Breagh  had  got  up  and  gone 
out  at  half-past  six." 

"For  a  shave?" 

Mr.  Knewbit  rubbed  his  own  bristly  chin  rather  dubi- 
ously as  he  asked  the  question.  Miss  Ling,  impaling  a 
round  of  stale  loaf  upon  a  tin  toasting-fork,  shook  her 
neat  head  and  answered  in  the  negative.  Mr.  Breagh  had 
mentioned  that  he  was  going  to  church. 

"To  church.  .  .  .  We'll  hope  he  has  gone,"  said  Mr. 
Knewbit  still  more  dubiously,  "though  between  me  and 
you  and  the  toasting-fork  it  sounds  too  good  to  be  true.  .  .  . 
And  'The  Brunswick  Arms'  is  handy  round  the  corner. 
If  the  young  man  don 't  rattle  at  the  area-gate  by  the  time 


THE   MAN   OF   IRON  107 

you've  finished  your  toasting,  I  shall  made  bold  to  go  and 
look  for  him  at  the  Bar.  Hulloa!  Here  he  is!  Now, 
that's  what  you  might  call  a  pleasant  disappointment!" 

For  he  had  glanced  up  at  the  strip  of  area-railings  com- 
manded by  the  upper  panes  of  the  kitchen  window,  and 
seen  the  legs  of  P.  C.  Breagh  stride  by  at  a  great  rate,  stop, 
turn  back,  and  descend  the  area-steps. 

You  are  to  see  Miss  Ling  receiving  his  morning  greeting 
with  the  wide  smile  that  revealed  an  unbroken  row  of 
sound  white  teeth  ("every  one  her  own,"  as  Mr.  Knewbit 
would  say)  and  made  her  thin,  triangular  face  so  pleasant. 
She  was  a  staid  spinster,  owning  to  forty-nine,  who  would 
have  died  rather  than  confess  to  being  fifty.  Her  magnifi- 
cent hair,  genuinely  black  and  shining  like  ebony,  was 
coiled  upon  the  top  of  her  head  too  tightly  for  beauty. 
Her  well-marked  eyebrows  and  candid  brown  eyes  slanted 
a  little  upward  at  the  temples,  and  her  skin  was  rather 
yellowish  than  olive.  She  was  of  a  flat  and  bony  figure, 
active  and  sound  and  tough,  and,  in  a  plain  way,  a  first- 
rate  cook  and  caterer. 

"Though  when  I  left  her  Ladyship  the  Countess  of 
Crowmarsh,"  said  Miss  Ling,  "after  fourteen  years  spent 
in  the  Castle  nurseries,  gradually  rising  from  nursery-maid 
to  under-nurse,  and  then  becoming  what  his  Lordship  was 
pleased  to  call  Head  of  the  Bottle  Department — a  very 
humorous  nobleman  his  Lordship  was  at  times! — I  had 
forgotten  all  I  ever  knew  of  my  dear  mother's  kitchen- 
teaching — she  was  a  cook,  Mr.  Breagh,  who  had  lived  with 
the  first  in  the  land!  and  when — being  pensioned  by  the 
family — I  decided  to  risk  the  step  of  taking  this  house, 
and  letting  it  out  to  lodgers,  preferring  single  gentlemen 
— I  was  forced  to  engage  a  widowed  person  to  prepare 
their  meals  at  first." 

"I  remember  her,"  said  Mr.  Knewbit,  with  his  mouth 
full  of  poached  eggs  and  bacon.  "She  could  under-boil  a 
pertater  and  calcine  a  chop  with  any  elderly  female  I  ever 
yet  come  across.  Here,  pussy!  if  you  ain't  too  proud  for 
rasher-rinds?  And  not  you!"  He  leaned  to  the  hearth — 
he  was  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  glowing  range,  and 
dropped  his  offering  under  the  nose  of  the  ginger  kitten, 
which,  having  already  disposed  of  a  saucer  of  bread-and- 
milk,  instantly  grabbed. 

"To-morrow,"  said  P.  C.  Breagh,  looking  up  from  his 


108  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

rapidly-emptying  plate  with  the  smile  which  Miss  Ling 
had  already  decided  was  pleasant,  ' '  I  hope  to  prove  to  you 
that,  like  the  kitten,  I  am  not  too  proud  for  anything  that 
comes  in  my  way. ' ' 

"Presently,  presently!"  said  Mr.  Knewbit  sharply. 
"Everything  in  good  time !  .  .  .  I  don't  like  to  be  hurried. 
And — what  did  you  say  was  the  property  you'd  left  with 
the — the  Greedy  Guts  who  runs  that  Euston  Road  hotel  ? ' ' 

"There  were  three  boxes  of  books — chiefly  works  on 
medicine  and  surgery."  Carolan  reflected  a  moment,  stir- 
ring his  coffee  with  one  of  Miss  Ling's  Britannia-metal 
spoons.  "And  two  trunks,  with  clothes  and  all  that. 
Things  I  valued.  My  student's  cap  and  schlager,  and  the 
silver-mounted  beer-horn  the  English  Colony  gave  me,  and 
— a  Crucifix  that  was  my  mother 's. ' '  The  speaker  blinked 
and  spoke  a  little  huskily:  "Used  to  hang  over  my  bed 
when  I  was  a  little  chap  in  frocks." 

"Don't  be  cast  down.  Some  wave  o'  luck  may  wash 
your  property  ashore  at  your  feet  one  of  these  days.  "What 
I  will  say  is — I  wish  I  had  the  setting-up  of  that  story  for 
the  paper!"  said  Mr.  Knewbit,  handing  in  his  plate  for 
fried  bread.  "Supposing  -you," — he  jerked  his  eyes  at 
Carolan — "had  any  talent  in  the  literary  line,  it  'ud  be 
worth  your  while  to  throw  off  a  quarter-col,  of  descriptive 
stuff." 

"Relating  to  my  experiences  in  that  fellow's  bug-ridden 
lodging-house?  Why,  I  don't  doubt  I  could — after  a 
fashion,"  said  P.  C.  Breagh. 

' '  After  a  fashion  won 't  do.  Write  it  the  best  you  know ! 
Sit  down  at  the  kitchen-table  here,  when  Maria's  gone  to 
her  prayer-meeting  and  I've  got  my  pipe  and  Solomon  to 
keep  me  quiet, — and  blacken  half  a  quire  o '  paper — there 's 
plenty  in  the  drawer  there! — with  the  story — told  short, 
crisp  and  plain,  and  with  a  dash  o'  humor,  and  within 
four  hundred  words.  It  would  space  out  lovely!"  said 
Mr.  Knewbit,  arranging  imaginary  head-lines  on  the  clean 
coarse  tablecloth. 

LONDON  SHARK 

VICTIMIZES    STUDENT ! 

HE    GRABS   HIS    GOODS 

AND  LETS  HIM  GO ! 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  109 

Ah,  dear  me!  If  I  had  had  your  education.  But  it's  too 
late  to  alter  that.  "What  were  you  saying,  Maria?" 

Miss  Ling  was  hoping  that  Mr.  Breagh  had  passed  a 
comfortable  night?  , 

''First  rate,  ma'am,  many  thanks  to  you!"  returned  the 
object  of  her  solicitude. 

"For,"  said  Miss  Ling,  with  a  homely  kind  of  dignity, 
* '  if  anything  was  wanting,  Mr.  Breagh  must  make  excuses. 
The  arrival  being  unlooked-for  and  the  notice  very  short. ' ' 

"Dropped  on  you  out  of  the  skies,  didn't  he,  Maria?" 
chuckled  Mr.  Knewbit.  "And  you've  put  him,  for  the 
present,  in  Mr.  Ticking 's  bed ! ' ' 

"In  Mr.  Ticking's  bed! — Mr.  Ticking,"  explained  Miss 
Ling,  turning  to  the  new  arrival,  "who  rents  our  third- 
floor  front,  being  in  the  country  for  his  holidays. ' ' 

P.  C.  Breagh  expressed  the  hope  that  Mr.  Ticking  would 
not  be  offended. 

' '  Lord  bless  you,  no ! "  responded  Mr.  Knewbit.  ' '  Tick- 
ing's  an  agreeable  feller.  He'd  take  you  rather  as  a  Boon 
than  otherwise.  Contributes  a  column  of  cheerful,  gossipy 
items  weekly  to  half-a-dozen  of  the  suburban  and  district 
newspapers  that  are  springing  up  around  us  like — like 
mushrooms.  Always  on  the  look-out  for  copy — Ticking  is ! 
Now  Mounteney " 

"Mr.  Mounteney — who  is  also  away  on  his  vacation,  and 
rents  the  front  sitting-room  on  our  ground-floor,  and  the 
bedroom  behind  it,"  said  Miss  Ling,  "is  a  gentleman  who 
— owing  to  the  nature  of  his  professional  employment — is 
very  refined  and  sensitive." 

"Edits  the  Health  and  Beauty  column  of  the  Ladies' 
Mentor,"  said  Mr.  Knewbit,  crunching  fried  bread  noisily, 
"and  is  altogether  too  ladylike  a  gentleman  to  take  a 
liberty  with.  For  the  rest,  we  are  Full  Up.  To  begin 
with,  I  occupy  a  combined  bed-and-sitting  room  behind 
this  kitchen,  and  Miss  Ling  occupies  the  large  front  garret 
bedroom;  the  back  one  being  partitioned  off  as  a  Box  and 
Lumber  room,  and  a  bedroom  for  the  servant  gal,  who  is 
now  having  her  breakfast  in  the  scullery,  as  me  and  Miss 
Ling  agreed  would  be  more  considerate  toward  you.  .  .  . 
Coming  down  again  to  the  first-floor,  the  front  parlor  and 
back  bedroom  are  rented  by  a  German  gentleman,  Mr.  Van 
Something ' ' 

"Herr  von  Kosius,"  interpolated  Miss  Ling,  "who  is  a 


110  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

teacher  at  the  Institute  of  Languages  in  Berners  Street. 
.  .  .  Second-floor  front,  another  combined  bed-and-sitting 
.  .  .  Monsieur  Meguet,  a  French  gentleman  who  is  study- 
ing Prints  at  the  British  Museum.  Second-floor  back,  Miss 
Kindell,  who  is  a  copier  of  Pictures  at  the  National  Gallery, 
and  a  sweet  artist.  Third-floor,  Mr.  Ticking — 

"You  represent  him  for  the  present,"  said  Mr.  Knewbit, 
nodding  at  Carolan. 

"The  trouble  is,  and  I  hope  Mr.  Breagh  will  forgive  me 
for  mentioning  it,"  hesitated  Miss  Ling,  "that  Mr.  Tick- 
ing comes  back  to-morrow  night.  ..." 

"And  when  does  Miss  Morency  go?  ...  Miss  Mor- 
ency,"  explained  Mr.  Knewbit  without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer, "is  a  young  person  who  don't  give  satisfaction, — re- 
garded as  a  lodger, — and  there  you  have  the  truth  in  a  nut- 
shell— Brazil  for  choice!  And  Miss  Ling's  good-nature 
has  led  her,  before  now,  to  take  in  such  people,  and  be 
taken  in  by  'em  too,  I  'm  bound  to  say ! ' ' 

The  little  man  broke  off  as  Miss  Ling,  mindful  of  P.  C. 
Breagh 's  flushed  and  uneasy  countenance,  coughed  warn- 
ingly. 

"Miss  Morency  has  been  brought  up  very  well,  and  is — 
she  has  told  me, — the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  in  Hertford- 
shire," she  explained  as  Mr.  Knewbit  buried  his  confusion 
in  his  coffee-cup.  "I  cannot  but  think  it  right — under  the 
circumstances — to  give  Miss  Morency  a  little  time  to  turn 
round. ' ' 

"She's  been  turning  round  for  eight  weeks,"  said  Mr. 
Knewbit,  rubbing  his  nose  irritably.  "And — if  I  was  you, 
I'd  have  my  latchkey  back." 

"To  ask  it  would  be  a  want  of  confidence,  which  would 
wound  Miss  Morency,  and  upset  her,"  returned  Miss  Ling, 
who  had  risen  and  was  gathering  the  breakfast  things 
together  in  rather  an  agitated  way.  She  added:  "And 
willfully  to  hurt  a  person's  feelings  is  a  thing  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  do,  Solomon.  And  she  goes  out,  evening 
after  evening,  poor  thing,  to  call  on  relatives  who  live  in 
distant  parts  of  London,  and  is  hardly  ever  back  until  very 
late  indeed ! ' ' 

"She  come  in  at  two  o'clock  this  morning,"  said  Mr. 
Knewbit,  screwing  up  his  eyes  meaningly  at  Carolan. 
"And — being  comparatively  early  myself  on  Saturdays — 
I  heard  her — just  as  I  was  getting  between  the  sheets. 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  111 

And  being  anxious  to  solve  the  problem  as  to  Why  a  young 
creature  like  that  should  go  out  walking  on  two  feet — and 
them  remarkably  small  and  pretty  ones! — and  come  back 
with  Four — and  two  of  'em  uncommon  big  and  heavy 
ones,  I  slipped  up  the  kitchen-stairs  and  looked  round  the 
corner-post.  'The  seeing  eye  and  the  hearing  ear,'  said  my 
namesake,  'the  Lord  hath  made  them  both'  .  .  .  and  then, 
just  as  I  was  a-going  to  ring  the  garret-bell  and  bring  you 
down  out  of  bed  in  your  curl-papers,  Maria,  I  remembered, 
'Lie  not  in  wait  for  wickedness  in  the  house  of  the  just,  nor 
spoil  his  rest,'  'him'  being  understood  as  'her,'  for  you're 
a  just  woman !  But  judgment  must  be  executed  upon  the 
daughter  of  Kahab,  whether  it's  Sunday  or  whether  it 
ain't!" 

"When  you  begin  quoting  from  the  prophets,  it  takes  a 
cleverer  than  me  to  understand  you,"  said  Miss  Ling, 
flushed  to  the  top  of  her  high  cheekbones.  "But  as  a 
woman  that's  her  elder,  I  will  stand  up  for  that  poor  un- 
protected young  creature  against  any  man  that  tries  to 
take  her  character  away ! ' ' 

"It's  nearly  time  for  the  Prayer  Meeting  at  the  Head- 
quarters Branch  Hall  of  your  Christian  Mission  Army," 
said  Mr.  Knewbit,  looking  at  an  enormous  silver  watch  he 
wore,  and  always  set  by  the  Tower  clock  at  Westminster, 
and  calmly  taking  the  poker  from  the  rail  above  the 
kitchen-range.  "If  you'll  put  on  your  bonnet  and  go, 
what  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  do  will  be  comfortably 
over  before  the  General,  or  the  Colonel,  or  whichever  of  'em 
is  set  down  to  give  you  Blood  and  Fire  this  morning,  has 
fairly  warmed  to  the  fight.  But  if  you  want  to  be  upset 
and  made  uncomfortable  in  your  mind  for  a  week  after- 
wards— you  '11  stop  !  You  will  ?  Very  well,  and  why  not 
in  your  own  house?  Mr.  Breagh,  will  you  kindly  follow 
with  Miss  Ling  and  act  as  Reserve  Force  in  this  emer- 
gency ?  I  thank  you,  young  gentleman ! ' ' 

And  armed  with  the  poker,  Mr.  Knewbit  left  the  kitchen, 
followed  by  Carolan  and  the  landlady,  closely  attended 
by  the  ginger  kitten,  and  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  third- 
floor  back. 


112  THE    MAN   OE   IRON 


XVI 

IT  was  a  sordid  little  scene  that  followed,  but  for  the 
sake  of  the  good  woman  whose  unaffected  charity  and 
kindly  feeling  illumined  its  murky  darkness,  it  shall  be 
recorded  here.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Knewbit,  arriving  at  Miss  Morency's  door,  thumped 
on  it,  receiving  no  answer  beyond  the  hurried  shooting  of 
the  bolt,  and  the  scuffling  of  slippered  feet  across  the  car- 
pet. Roused  by  the  meaningful  silence  to  indignation,  he 
delivered  himself  in  the  following  terms : 

''You  inside  there — and  you're  aware  why  I  don't  ad- 
dress you  as  a  young  lady! — I'm  going  to  trouble  you  to 
unfasten  that  door ! ' ' 

"No,  you  ain't!"  said  a  feminine  voice  from  within, 
defiantly.  "Go  downstairs  and  shave  yourself,  you  silly 
old  man ! ' ' 

A  thickish  masculine  chuckle  greeted  this  sally. 

"When  we  have  got  you  and  your  companion  out  of 
this  respectable  house,"  quoth  the  wrathful  Mr.  Knewbit, 
"I  may  have  time  to  attend  to  my  Sunday  twylett.  Not 
before!  Are  you  a-going  to  undo  this  door?  Because,  H 
you  won 't,  I  am  a-going  to  bust  it  with  the  poker !  Once ! ' ' 
He  applied  the  end  of  the  weapon  named  to  a  panel  with 
a  crack  in  it.  ' '  Twice ! " 

' '  Stop ! ' '  cried  Miss  Ling,  and  Mr.  Knewbit  lowered  the 
poker.  "One  moment,  Solomon! — I  want  to  speak  to 
her!" 

Forgetful  of  her  neat  Sabbath  attire,  she  went  down 
upon  her  knees  before  the  door,  as  Mr.  Knewbit  joined  P. 
C.  Breagh  upon  the  staircase,  and  laid  her  work-worn  hand 
as  gently  and  persuasively  upon  the  threatened  panel,  as 
if  it  had  been  a  human  bosom  housing  an  obdurate  heart. 

"Miss  Morency!  Don't  be  afraid,  my  dear!  Maria 
Ling  it  is  a-speaking  to  you ! ' '  She  waited  an  instant,  and 
receiving  no  response,  went  on. 

"Mr.  Knewbit  has  got  it  in  his  head — he  best  knows 
why! — that  you're  not  Alone  in  that  room,  in  a  manner 
of  speaking.  .  .  .  Open  the  door  and  prove  to  him  he's 
wrong;  or  tell  me  on  your  solemn  honor — before  the  God 
who  made  you  and  me  both  women! — that  he's  mistaken, 


THE   MAN,   OE  IRON  113 

and  I'll  believe  you — and  ask  your  pardon — and  we'll  all 
go  downstairs  again!" 

There  was  a  silence  within  the  room,  and  then  a  thick 
whispering  voice  and  a  thin  whispering  voice  held  indis- 
tinct colloquy.  P.  C.  Breagh  and  Mr.  Knewbit  exchanged 
looks,  Miss  Ling  grew  pale,  rose,  and  withdrew  from  the 
door.  Her  clean  Sunday  handkerchief  was  in  her  hand  and 
the  hand  shook,  and  her  mouth  was  shut  tightly,  as,  with 
much  shuffling,  an  obstacle — probably  a  chest  of  drawers — 
was  removed  from  the  other  side,  the  key  was  turned, 
and  the  bolt  withdrawn. 

The  door  opened.  The  defiant  figure  and  the  angry 
painted  face  of  a  good-looking  young  woman  were  revealed 
beyond  the  threshold.  She  wore  a  gaudy  dressing-gown 
trimmed  with  cheap  lace,  and  a  butterfly  cap  in  the  pre- 
vailing mode  was  set  upon  her  mound  of  dyed  hair.  Her 
companion  might  have  been  the  manager  of  a  restaurant, 
or  a  West  End  shopwalker.  His  face  was  sallow  with 
debauch,  and  his  eyes  were  red  from  liquor  or  sleeplessness. 
With  the  rosebud  of  the  previous  night  still  drooping  in 
the  buttonhole  of  his  fashionably  cut  frock-coat,  and  the 
mud  of  the  previous  night  soiling  his  trouser-ends  and  his 
shiny  boots  and  drab  spats,  and  his  silk  hat  fixed  firmly 
on  his  head  as  though  in  anticipation  of  a  scuffle,  he  stood 
behind  the  woman;  maintaining  a  sulky  silence,  gripping 
his  cane  in  a  hand  that  was  mottled  and  shaky.  And  the 
roll  of  his  eyes  said  "Two  of  'em!"  as  his  glance  took  in 
Mr.  Knewbit  and  P.  C.  Breagh. 

Said  the  rouged,  defiant  young  woman  in  the  flyaway 
cap,  turning  a  glare  of  defiance  upon  her  landlady : 

"You  see  now  whether  that" — she  employed  a  term 
reflecting  on  the  moral  character  of  her  assailant — "was 
mistaken,  or  whether  he  wasn  't,  I  hope  ? ' ' 

Returned  Miss  Ling,  looking  mildly  at  the  brazen  coun- 
tenance : 

"I  see!  May  the  Lord  forgive  you,  poor  ruined  young 
creature.  But  for  Him  having  given  me  a  good,  good 
mother,  I  might  be  standing  where  you  are  now ! ' ' 

"Never!"  said  Mr.  Knewbit  under  his  breath.  The 
kind  soul  went  on  without  heeding  him: 

"Were  you  led  away?  .  .  .  Was  it  the  first  time?  .  .  . 
Whether  or  no,  it's  not  too  late  to  change,  and  lead  a  life 
of  decency.  As  for  this — man.  .  .  ."* 


114  THE   MAN   OF   IRON 

The  young  woman  interrupted,  with  lowered  eyes  shun- 
ning her: 

"We're  to  be  married!  He's  promised  me  upon  his 
oath!" 

Her  companion  purpled  furiously,  and  broke  out: 

"You're  lying,  you !  I  picked  you  up  in  the  Hay- 
market  !  Do  you  think  I  'm  afraid  of  you  and  your  bullies 
there?  Stand  back!" 

Fulminating  threats,  he  thrust  roughly  past  Miss  I -ing, 
driving  her,  possibly  not  with  intention,  against  the  land- 
ing wall.  She  gave  a  little  cry,  and  the  poker  fell.  .  .  .  He 
bellowed : 

" you!  You've  broken  my  arm,  you — blackguard! 

Where 's  the  police  ? ' ' 

A  grip  of  steel  shut  upon  his  scruff,  and  the  voice  be- 
longing to  the  grip  said  cheerfully : 

"In  the  street.  Come  down  and  look  for  'em,  my 
man!" 

His  protests  were  drowned  in  the  rattling  of  his  boot- 
heels  on  the  oil-cloth-covered  staircase,  in  the  violence  of 
'his  transit  to  the  ground-floor.  There,  as  Mr.  Knewbit, 
dodging  past,  opened  the  hall  door,  he  was  shot  from  its 
threshold  as  a  human  bullet  from  a  spring-cannon,  even 
then  supplying  a  sensational  turn  at  the  Royal  Alhambra 
Theater — rolled  down  the  steps,  gathering  momentum, 
and  colliding  with  a  late  milk-truck  that  happened  to  be 
passing,  suffered  abrasions  and  the  ruin  of  his  smart  frock- 
coat.  Leaving  the  victim  of  righteous  judgment  to  appease 
the  justly-indignant  milkman  with  some  of  the  silver  shed 
from  his  trousers-pockets  in  the  transit,  Mr.  Knewbit 
slammed  the  door,  and  crowed,  slapping  P.  C.  Breagh 
heartily  upon  the  back. 

"Neatly  done!  You  could  get  a  well-paid  job  as  pitcher- 
out  at  a  West  End  bar,  if  you'd  nothing  better  than  your 
muscles  to  rely  upon.  .  .  .  Wait  a  bit!"  He  vanished 
upstairs,  walking  as  softly  as  a  cat  does,  to  return  and 
explain : 

4 '  The  pumps  are  at  work  up  there !  Both  of  'em  crying 
— Rahab's  Daughter  and  Solomon's  Virtuous  Woman,  I 
mean.  .  .  .  You  remember  the  text?  'Her  price  is  above 
rubies.'  I  remembered  it  when  I  saw  her  sitting  dropping 
tears  upon  that  trollop 's  head,  that  was  a-lying  in  her  lap. 
Well,  well!"  He  led  the  way  down  into  the  kitchen, 


THE   MAN   OF   IRON  115 

muttering,  "  'As  golden  pillars  upon  bases  of  silver,  so  are 
the  firm  feet  upon  the  soles  of  a  steady  woman.  .  .  .'  and 
'Her  husband's  heart  delighteth  in  her!'  Sit  down,  you 
must  want  a  breather  .  .  .  ' Delighteth  in  her' — or  would 
have  if  she'd  married  one  capable  of  appreciating  a  char- 
acter like  hers. ' ' 

Seeing  that  the  mind  of  Mr.  Knewbit  was  still  running 
upon  Miss  Ling,  P.  C.  Breagh  ventured  to  ask : 

"And  has  she  never  entertained  any  intention  of " 

Mr.  Knewbit  nodded  sagely. 

"Once.  You  might  say — there  has  been  a  Romance  in 
her  life,  without  exaggeration.  When  in  service  with  that 
family  of  Nobs  you've  heard  her  mention, — about  twenty- 
four  years  ago,  when  she  was  a  strapping  young  woman  of 
twenty-six — she  got  engaged  to  an  underbutler — a  young 
man  with  an  affectionate  nature  and  a  changeable  disposi- 
tion, in  conjunction  with  weak  lungs.  Weak  lungs " 

Mr.  Knewbit  opened  the  oven-door  and  looked  in  to  ascer- 
tain how  the  mutton  and  Yorkshire  pudding  were  getting 
on.  "I've  had  weak  lungs  myself,  but  never  found  'em 
an  excuse  for  villainy !  Mph !  .  .  .  Don 't  smell  like  burn- 
ing— pretty  right,  it  seems  to  me!" 

He  sat  down  in  his  Windsor  arm-chair  near  the  hearth, 
stretched  out  his  carpet-slippered  feet,  and  broke  out: 

"So — in  the  interests  o'  them  weak  lungs  of  his,  his 
master's  son,  Lord  Wallingbrook — to  whom  he  sometimes 
acted  as  valet,  took  him  in  that  capacity  on  a  steam-yacht- 
trip  from  Plymouth,  via  Trinidad  to  the  Southern  Seas. 
And  they  cruised  among  the  Islands  of  the  Pacific  for 
months — a  gay  party  of  bachelors  amusing  themselves! — 
and — in  the  Paumotu  Group — this  precious  young  man 
of  Maria 's  up-stick  and  took  French  leave.  .  .  .  And  that 's 
all.  And  whether  his  master  knew  more  than  he'd  tell 
— that's  uncertain.  Anyhow,  a  letter  arrived  six  months 
after  the  steam-yacht  dropped  anchor  at  Plymouth,  to 
say  that  he  was  safe  and  well  and  happy — but  was  never 
coming  Home  any  more.  And  she  believes  .  .  .  'Ssh! 
Here  she  is!" 

It  was  Miss  Ling,  who  had  been  crying,  undoubtedly,  for 
her  Sunday  bonnet-strings  were  spotted  as  with  rain,  and 
her  clean  handkerchief  was  reduced  to  a  damp  wad.  Said 
she: 

"I  have  talked  to  that  poor  thing  upstairs,  as  a  woman 


116  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

of  my  age  is  privileged  to  do.  And  she  has  softened 
wonderful,  Solomon,  and  from  what  she  has  owned — has 
seen  the  shame  and  wickedness  of  her  life  clear,  and  longed 
to  be  delivered  from  it — this  many  and  many  a  day,  I'm 
sure!  So  if  you'll  kindly  whistle  up  a  four-wheeler,  I'll 
make  bold — being  late  for  the  speaking  at  the  Judd  Street 
Branch  Hall! — to  take  her  down  to  the  Christian  Mission 
Army  Headquarters  in  the  Whitechapel  Road.  Where  I 
shall  find  not  only  the  General,  as  they  call  Mr.  Booth, 
but  Mrs.  Booth,  ready  and  willing,  please  Heaven !  to  help 
the  poor  soul  to  a  better  life !  And  though  Lilla  has  gone 
home  to  spend  Sunday  with  her  mother  at  Southampton 
Mews,  I  '11  stop  there  passing  and  send  a  note  in,  and  she  '11 
come  round  and  dish  up  dinner — and  don't  you,  either  of 
you,  dream  of  waiting  a  minute  for  me !  Now,  I  'm  going 
back  to  Miss  Morency — though  her  real  name  is  nothing 
like  so  grand  as  that,  poor  creature ! ' ' 

She  turned  at  the  door  to  nod  and  smile  and  say : 
"And  her  and  me  will  carry  down  her  box  between  us, 
so  don't  show  yourselves  to  shame  her  poor  swelled  face 
before  the  cabman." 

"There's  a  woman!"  said  Mr.  Knewbit  exultantly,  a 
few  minutes  later,  as  the  hall-door  shut  and  the  cab-door 
banged,  and  the  vehicle  containing  the  Daughter  of  Rahab 
and  the  Woman  Above  Rubies  rattled  away  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Holborn  Circus. 

"I  wonder  you "  P.  C.  Breagh  was  beginning,  when 

he  stopped  himself  on  the  brink  of  an  indiscretion. 

"Eh?  .  .  ."  interrogated  Mr.  Knewbit.  "What?  .  .  . 
Oh,  but  I  did,  though!" 

Mr.  Knewbit  rubbed  his  chin,  which  needed  shaving, 
and  shook  his  head  in  a  despondent  way. 

' '  I  did.  She  was  thirty-one  when  the  Earl  and  Countess 
pensioned  her — thirty-one  pound  a  year  For  Life  they 
promised.  .  .  .  And  it's  been  paid  regularly,  going  on  for 
nineteen  year  now.  And  in  the  second  year  I  came  to  lodge 
here  early  in  January,  and  finding  her  a  comfortable, 
cleanly,  kindly  creature,  I  stopped  on — and  all  but  asked 
her  to  marry  me  next  time  New  Year  came  round.  On 
the  following  anniversary  I  took  the  plunge !  after  reading 
a  passage  of  Solomon's  peculiarly  applicable  to  my  case. 
'He  that  hath  found  a  good  wife  hath  found  a  good  thing,' 


THE    MAX    OF    IROX  117 

it  was.  Turned  it  up  by  accident,  and  showed  it  to  her, 
and  asked  her.  And  she  said  No!  And  goes  on  saying 
it — though  I  ask  her  for  the  last  time  regularly  every  year. 
Here's  the  gal  coming  down  the  area-steps.  Now  that 
meat  and  pudding's  off  my  conscience,  I  shall  put  on  my 
boots  for  an  airing  before  dinner.  And  while  I'm  gone — 
try  your  hand  at  a  neat  article  in  moderate  paragraphs 
describing  the  methods  of  that" — Mr.  Knewbit  cast  about 
for  a  new  term — ' '  that  Man-eating  Alligator  in  the  Euston 
Road.  "What  was  the  name  of  the  place?  'Royal  Copen- 
hagen Hotel!'  .  .  .  Why,  it  fairly  smells  of  roguery! 
'Royal  Greenhorn'  would  be  pretty  well  up  to  the  mark." 

Mr.  Knewbit  returned,  just  as  the  little  servant  pro- 
nounced dinner  to  be  in  danger  of  spoiling — in  a  cab ;  and 
thereupon  ensued  much  jolting  and  bumping,  suggestive 
of  the  conveyance  of  heavy  articles  up  the  doorsteps  into 
the  hall.  Where,  being  summoned  from  the  kitchen  by  a 
bellow,  P.  C.  Breagh  recognized  his  own  trunks  and  book- 
boxes,  and  wrung  the  hand  of  his  good  genius  with  a  grate- 
ful swelling  of  the  heart,  and  an  irrepressible  watering  of 
the  eyes. 

"It  was  so  kind! — and  suppose  I  never  am  able  to  pay 
you — or  keep  you  waiting  a  devil  of  a  time?"  he  pro- 
tested incoherently. 

"Young  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Knewbit,  scowling  with  his 
heavy  brows  and  twinkling  pleasantly  from  under  them. 
"You  are  a  gentleman  born  and  bred  and  taught.  You 
must  have  your  Books  to  keep  up  your  Latin  and  Greek 
and  other  learning — and  to  keep  up  your  appearance  you 
must  have  your  clothes.  No  man  is  so  down  in  the  world 
that  he  can  afford  to  go  downer.  This  is  my  opinion,  and 
also  Miss  Ling 's ! " 

"And  to-morrow  Mr.  Breagh  will  find  poor  Miss  Mor- 
ency's  room  swept  and  scrubbed  and  got  ready  for  him," 
said  Miss  Ling  that  evening,  during  Mr.  Knewbit 's  ab- 
sence. "And  the  rent  is — including  Kitchen  Board  with 
myself  and  Mr.  Knewbit,  who  likes  homeliness,  sixteen 
shillings  per  week.  And  if  I  trust  Mr.  Breagh  for  a  month 
— that  will  be  a  chance  for  him  of  getting  work  to  do.  And 
that  he  will  turn  from  nothing  that  will  bring  him  in  an 
honest  living,  I  am  certain;  and  that  he  will  justify  the 
confidence  of  Mr.  Knewbit,  I  am  equally  sure ! ' ' 

Said  P.  C.  Breagh,  rather  chokily : 


118  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"I  hope  to  God  I  may  one  day  be  able  to  thank  you 
both  as  I  should  like  to!  You  don't  know  what  you  have 
done  for  me,  either  of  you!  But  I  will — will  repay  you, 
I  swear ! ' ' 

She  said  in  her  quaint  way : 

"What  obligation  there  may  be  could  be  repaid  now — 
with  Mr.  Breagh's  permission.  He  saw  that  most  unhappy 
girl  to-day.  .  .  .  He  has  seen  a-many — many  like  her! 
If  he  would  promise  me — never  to  bring  about  a  fall  like 
that,  or  help  to  drag  a  head  so  fallen,  lower!  Perhaps  I 
take  a  liberty,"  said  Miss  Ling,  "and  presume,  being  al- 
most a  stranger.  .  .  .  Yet  I  ask  it  of  Mr.  Breagh,  I  do 
indeed!" 

He  gave  the  promise,  in  words  that  were  broken  and 
hurried,  and  with  eyes  that  shunned  her  plain,  kind,  ear- 
nest face.  She  said : 

"There  will  be  a  beautiful  young  lady,  one  of  these 
days,  all  the  happier  for  that  promise  Mr.  Breagh  has 
given.  And  I  hope  he  won't  think  me  unjust — because 
I  am  a  woman!  and  blind  to  the  wreck  and  ruin  that 
my  sex  can  bring  about.  I  knew  a  young  man,  once;  who 
was  good,  and  honest,  and  worthy ;  and  engaged  to  marry 
a  young  person  of  his  own  rank  in  life.  ..." 

Carolan  remembered  Mr.  Knewbit's  story  of  the  faith- 
less underbutler. 

"He  went  Abroad  to  Foreign  Countries,"  said  Miss 
Ling,  mildly,  "sailing  on  a  ship  that  voyaged  for  months 
at  a  time.  I  am  told  that  the  women  are  very  beautiful 
in  the  islands  that  he  visited ;  and  somehow  or  another,  he 
was  led  away.  ..." 

Though  she  looked  at  Carolan,  her  regard  was  curiously 
impersonal.  It  was  as  though  she  saw  the  wraith  of  some 
face  once  dear,  and  although  changed,  never  to  be  for- 
gotten, appear  within  the  outlines  of  the  face  that  looked 
back  at  her. 

"The  ship  sailed  Home  without  him.  He  wrote — by 
another  vessel — to  the  young  woman  he  was  to  have  mar- 
ried, begging  her  forgiveness.  .  .  .  He  had  loved  her,  he 
said,  and  looked  to  be  happy  with  her.  But  the  sunshine 
and  perfume  and  color  of  them  foreign  places,  and  the 
spell  of  the  beauty  of  their  wild  brown  foreign  women  was 
over  him.  He  could  not  come  back.  .  .  .  He  never  may 
come  back  again.  .  .  .  But  if  it  happened  so — and  he, 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  119 

being  old  and  worn,  and  weary  of  strange  ways  and  dis- 
tant places,  was  looking  for  an  honest  roof  to  shelter  him, 
and  a  loving  heart  to  lean  upon  at  the  last.  ..." 

"He  would  find  both  here,  I  know!"  said  Carolan, 
gently. 

She  started  and,  recalling  herself,  said  in  a  changed 
tone: 

"Mr.  Breagh  must  excuse  my  having  delayed  him  here 
a-talking.  To  work  and  bustle  is  more  natural  to  me ! ' ' 

He  took  her  hand,  and  having  learned  in  Germany  to 
pay  such  pretty  homage  without  looking  foolish,  he  stooped 
above  it  and  touched  it  with  his  lips.  She  smiled  her  wise, 
kind  smile,  and  said  with  a  touching  simplicity : 

"Mr.  Breagh  is  good  enough  to  honor  a  poor,  hard, 
working  hand!" 

He  said,  and  the  tone  had  the  ring  of  sincerity : 

"I  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  I  were  worthier  of  touching 
it!" 

And  so  went  upstairs  to  sleep  in  Mr.  Ticking's  bed. 


XVII 

"MY  student-cap  and  sclildger  and  the  silver-mounted 
beer-horn  the  English  Colony  gave  me,  and  my  mother's 
Crucifix"  found  their  places  on  the  walls  of  the  clean  and 
comfortable  room,  and  upon  cheap  stained-deal  shelves 
the  books  of  which  Mr.  Knewbit  had  spoken  so  respectfully 
were  ranged,  waiting  to  refresh  their  owner's  memory 
whenever  he  chose  to  dip  into  them. 

The  sharkish  manager  of  the  '  '.Eoyal  Copenhagen  Hotel ' ' 
had  been  cowed  into  giving  up  the  detained  luggage  by 
Mr.  Knewbit 's  assurance  that  the  story  of  his  knavery  was 
even  then  taking  literary  form  under  the  skilled  hand  of  a 
young  and  aspiring  journalist  of  his  ( Knewbit 's)  own 
acquaintance,  and  might  shortly  appear  in  a  newspaper 
to  the  confusion  of  the  said  manager,  unless  the  property 
was  surrendered  upon  payment  of  a  corrected  version  of 
the  bill. 

These  terms  being  hastily  accepted,  the  Rules  of  Fair 
Play,  according  to  Mr.  Knewbit,  demanded  that  the  written 


120  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

record  of  the  manager's  iniquity  should  be  consigned  to 
Miss  Ling's  kitchen-fire. 

''Not  that  it  ain't  a  pity,  for  it  ain't  half  bad  for  a  be- 
ginner, though  wanting  in  what  I  call  snap  and  sparkle. 
But  honor  is  honor- — and  if  Mr.  Ticking  reads  this  know- 
ing you're  not  going  to  use  it — you'll  find  the  story  crop- 
ping up  presently  in  the  Camberwell  Clarion  or  the  Isling- 
ton Excelsior.  .  .  .  Couldn't  you  do  something  else — just 
for  a  taster?  Or  haven't  you  something  finished  and  put 
away  and  forgot?" 

P.  C.  Breagh  finally  disinterred  from  the  litter  of  manu- 
script notes  at  the  bottom  of  a  book-box,  a  scrawled  descrip- 
tion of  a  duel  between  two  Freshmen  at  a  well-known 
tavern  and  concert-room  outside  the  walls  of  Schwarz- 
Brettingen.  The  humors  of  the  battle,  waged  in  a  low- 
ceiled  room  in  the  upper  story,  crowded  with  chaffing, 
drinking,  smoking  students;  the  marvelous  nature  of  the 
defensive  armor  worn  by  the  inexperienced  Fuclise,  the 
blows  that  fell  flat,  the  final  entanglement  of  their  swords, 
and  abandonment  of  these  unfamiliar  weapons  in  favor  of 
fisticuffs,  made  Mr.  Knewbit  chuckle,  and  won  the  suf- 
frages of  Mr.  Ticking;  who  said  the  fight  and  the  bit  of 
knock-about  at  the  end  was  nearly  good  enough  to  be  put 
on  at  the  Halls. 

Mr.  Ticking  was  a  journalist  who  possessed  a  knack  of 
rhyme,  penned  comic  ditties  for  Lion  Comiques,  when  these 
gentlemen  would  sing  them, — and  lived  in  the  hope  of  get- 
ting a  Burlesque  produced  at  a  West-End  Theater  one  day. 
He  had  educated  himself  because  you  couldn  't  get  on  if  you 
were  not  educated.  He  could  not  have  explained  to  you 
how  the  process  had  been  carried  out.  By  dexterously 
angling  matter  for  short  paragraphs  from  the  swirl  of 
happenings  about  him,  he  contrived — between  the  Camber- 
well  Clarion,  the  Islington  Excelsior,  and  the  Afternoon, 
a  late  daily  published  in  Fleet  Street — to  net  some  three 
pounds  at  the  end  of  each  week.  Thirty  shillings  of  this 
went  to  support  an  aged  and  invalid  mother  resident  at 
Brixton;  and  if  you  had  lauded  Mr.  Ticking  as  a  heroic 
exemplar  of  filial  virtues,  he  would  have  been  excessively 
surprised.  Though  if  you  had  told  him  that  he  wrote 
Burlesque  better  than  Byron,  he  would  have  believed  you 
implicitly. 

Mr.  Mounteney,  Miss  Ling's  ladylike  gentleman,  proved 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  121 

to  be  a  tall,  stout,  elderly,  rather  depressed  individual, 
whose  gold-rimmed  glasses,  attached  to  a  broad  black  rib- 
bon, sat  a  little  crookedly  upon  a  high,  pink  Roman  nose. 
His  light  blue  eyes  were  over-tried  and  rather  watery,  his 
hair  had  come  off  at  the  top,  leaving  his  crown  bald  and 
shiny ;  his  customary  attire  was  a  rather  seedy  black  frock- 
coat,  a  drab  vest  with  pearl  buttons,  and  rather  baggy 
brown  trousers,  and  he  wore  turned-down  collars  and  black 
ribbon  neckties,  and  displayed  onyx  studs  and  links  in  a 
carefully  preserved  shirt.  Pieces  of  paper  protected  his 
cuffs,  invariably  covered  with  memoranda  written  in  violet- 
ink-pencil,  referring  to  the  most  delicate  and  confidential 
affairs. 

For  Mr.  Mounteney,  under  the  nom  de  guerre  of  "Ara- 
minta,"  edited  the  "Happiness,  Health,  and  Beauty"  col- 
umn of  that  fashionable  feminine  monthly,  the  Ladies'  Men- 
tor, into  whose  bureau,  according  to  Mr.  Mounteney,  a 
vast  correspondence, — penned  by  the  wives  and  daugh- 
ters of  what  Mr.  Mounteney  termed  the  Flower  of  Britain 's 
Nobility  and  Gentry,  as  by  their  governesses  and  maids, 
and  the  wives  and  daughters  of  their  butchers,  bakers,  and 
candlestick-makers, — continually  flowed.  Signing  them- 
selves by  fancy  names,  these  confiding  ones  would  put 
questions  concerning  matters  of  the  toilette  and  so  forth, 
the  Answers  to  which  interrogations,  with  the  pseudonyms 
prefixed,  were  inserted  month  by  month. 

"Little  Fairy. — A  lady  who  weighs  fourteen  stone 
need  not  necessarily  give  up  waltzing. 

"Ruby. — "We  should  recommend  you  to  powder  it. 

"Ravenlocks. — To  stand  in  the  sun  too  soon  after 
applying  is  prejudicial  to  a  successful  result. 

"Peri. — Try  peppermint." 

Or  the  bosom  of  Araminta,  guarded  by  the  onyx  studs 
and  the  black  pince-nez  ribbon,  would  be  made,  according 
to  its  owner,  the  receptacle  of  confidences  calculated,  if 
revealed,  to  convulse  Society  to  its  core.  Thus  burdened 
with  secrets,  it  weighed  heavily  on  Mr.  Mounteney.  AVhen 
lachrymose  with  gin-and-water,  to  which  cooling  beverage 
he  was  rather  addicted,  he  would  with  tears  deplore  the 
wreck  of  a  once  noble  constitution,  caused  by  reason  of 
emotional  strain.  But  he  never  gave  any  of  his  corre- 


122  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

spondents  away.  And  being  of  a  kindly  disposition,  he 
induced  the  Editor  of  the  Ladies'  Mentor  to  read  and 
accept  a  brief,  mildly-humorous  article,  descriptive  of  a 
German  ladies'  cake-and-coffee  party;  the  details  having 
been  long  ago  previously  supplied  by  a  fellow-student  at 
Schwarz-Brettingen,  and  worked  up  by  P.  C.  Breagh. 

Several  other  social  paragraphs  by  the  same  hand  found 
their  way,  thanks  to  Mr.  Ticking's  introduction,  into  the 
columns  of  the  Islington  Excelsior.  In  recognition,  P.  C. 
Breagh,  producing  pairs  of  basket-hilted  swords,  pads, 
cravats  and  goggles  from  one  of  the  cases  rescued  from 
the  hotel  manager,  instructed  Mr.  Ticking  in  the  noble 
art  of  fence. 

Their  thrusts,  lunges  and  stampings  seriously  threaten- 
ing the  stability  of  the  third-floor  landing,  these  combats 
were  transferred  to  the  back-yard  in  fine  weather,  and  per- 
mitted in  the  kitchen  when  it  was  wet.  And  Mr.  Ticking, 
though  he  never  mastered  the  science  of  the  schlager,  in- 
ducted P.  C.  Breagh  into  the  mysteries  of  boating  and 
velocipeding, — having  a  cutter-rigged  Thames  sailing-boat 
in  housing  near  Chelsea  Bridge  Stairs,  and  a  huge-wheeled 
bone-shaker  of  the  prevailing  type  stowed  away  in  a  de- 
crepit conservatory  adjoining  the  bathroom  on  Miss  Ling's 
second  floor. 

Mr.  Mounteney  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  handle 
what  he  stigmatized  as  "deadly  weapons,"  or  to  risk  his 
person  on  the  whirling  wheel,  while  even  fresh-water  boat- 
ing caused  him  to  suffer  from  symptoms  not  distantly 
resembling  those  peculiar  to  the  malady  of  the  ocean. 
But,  flabby  as  the  ladylike  gentleman  appeared,  he  was  a 
vigorous  and  tireless  pedestrian,  able  to  reduce  Mr.  Tick- 
ing, who  was  not  unhandy  in  the  usage  of  his  feet,  into  a 
human  pulp,  and  walk  Mr.  Knewbit,  who  had  reason  to 
pride  himself  upon  his  powers  of  locomotion,  completely 
off  his  legs. 

Expeditions  were  made  to  Addiscombe,  in  the  green 
swelling  Surrey  country,  where  the  once  famous  East  India 
College  was  founded  in  1812,  and  sold  and  dismantled  in 
1858  upon  the  transfer  of  the  Company  to  the  Crown.  Of 
the  3,600  cadets  who  were  trained  here,  the  names  of  Law- 
rence, Napier,  Durand,  and  Koberts  are  written  upon  the 
rolls  in  letters  of  undimming  gold.  Or  to  Sydenham  with 
its  acres  of  glittering  crystal,  its  matchless  fountains,  and. 


THE   WAN   OE   IRON  123 

the  view  from  the  North  Tower,  extending  over  six  coun- 
ties and  compassing  the  whole  course  of  the  Thames.  Or 
to  Ascot,  with  its  stretches  of  sandy  heathland,  its  noble 
racecourse  and  its  woods  of  fir  and  birch,  would  the  lady- 
like gentleman,  accompanied  by  one  or  the  other  or  both 
of  his  young  friends,  betake  himself  upon  a  highday  or  a 
holiday,  when  duchesses  ceased  from  troubling  and  milli- 
ners were  at  rest.  Or  they  would  make  for  Hampton 
Court  or  Bushey  Park,  or  the  ancient  manor  of  Cheshunt, 
or  to  Chigwell,  immortalized  by  Dickens,  where  in  the  oak- 
wainscoted  dining-room  of  the  King's  Head,  such  rare 
refreshment  of  cold  beef  and  salad,  apple  pie  and  Stilton 
cheese  could  be  had,  and  washed  down  by  the  soundest  and 
brightest  of  ales;  then  even  "Araminta"  was  tempted  to 
forget  the  crushing  responsibilities  inseparable  from  the 
delicate  position  of  adviser  upon  Health,  Happiness,  and 
Beauty  to  the  feminine  flower  of  England's  nobility  and 
gentry,  and  eat  and  drink  like  a  navvy  free  from  care. 

And  upon  the  return  of  the  three  wearied  pedestrians 
from  these  excursions,  there  would  be  a  cheery  supper  in 
Mr.  Ticking's  room,  or  in  Mr.  Mounteney's,  or,  best  of  all, 
in  Miss  Ling's  clean  and  comfortable  kitchen,  with  more 
beer  and  more  tobacco, — though  by  reason  of  a  digestion 
impaired  by  the  continual  wear  and  tear  of  his  fair  clients' 
confidences,  or  by  excessive  indulgence  in  tea,  Mr.  Moun- 
teney  restricted  himself  to  the  mildest  of  Turkish 
cigarettes. 

Mr.  Knewbit,  who  reveled  in  the  growing  popularity  of 
his  protege,  though  he  might  in  secret  have  shaken  his  head 
over  the  articles  and  paragraphs  published  in  the  Ladies' 
Mentor  and  the  Islington  Excelsior,  learned  very  willingly 
to  whistle  a  beer-waltz,  knocking  the  bottom  of  his  tumbler 
on  the  table  in  time  to  the  tune;  to  say  "Prosit"  when  he 
drank,  and  vocally  unite  in  the  final  melodic  outburst  of: 
"0  jerum,  jerum,  jerum,  jerum,  la  la  la!"  In  which  his- 
toric and  legendary  burden  Miss  Ling  would  also  join,  and 
laugh  until  the  tears  ran  down. 

Of  the  junior-stan0  room  of  the  Early  Wire,  a  bare,  gaunt 
place,  lighted  by  three  seldom-washed  windows  looking  on 
a  sooty  yard,  or  by  six  flaring  gas-jets  by  night  or  in  foggy 
weather,  Carolan  was,  by  the  interest  of  Mr.  Ticking,  one 
day  made  free.  Names  of  power  were  cut  with  penknives 


124         THE  MAN:  OF  IRON, 

on  the  ink-splashed  deal  tables,  and  the  bottoms  of  the 
cane-seated  chairs  had  given  way  under  the  weight  of  per- 
sonalities now  famous,  men  who  were  paid  for  a  single 
article  as  much  as  Ticking  earned  in  a  year. 

And  thus  P.  C.  Breagh  joined  the  gallant  company  of 
the  Free  Lances  of  Fleet  Street,  and  very  soon  had  its  of- 
fices and  eating-houses,  its  haunts  and  traditions  by  heart. 
What  demi-gods  walked  upon  those  historic  flags  and  cob- 
blestones! Russell,  the  pioneer  and  King  of  War  Corre- 
spondents, and  Simpson  of  Crimean  fame,  whose  war- 
sketches  for  the  Illustrated  London  News  had  set  England 
ablaze  in  '54-5,  and  George  Augustus  Sala,  and  Macready 
— long  since  retired  from  the  stage  in  1870, — the  veteran 
Charles  Mathews  and  Byron  of  burlesque  fame,  and  Bul- 
wer  Lytton,  and  Tennyson  and  Browning,  and  Planche 
and  Edmund  Yates,  and  genial,  handsome  Tom  Robertson, 
who  was  to  die,  with  his  laurels  green  upon  him,  in  another 
year.  All  these  were  pointed  out  to  the  young  man,  with 
certain  places  rendered  for  ever  sacred  by  the  footsteps  of 
Dickens  and  Thackeray,  and  other  of  the  Immortals  who 
have  passed  beyond  these  voices  into  peace. 

And  into  the  world  of  Music  and  the  Drama,  our  fortu- 
nate youth,  by  virtue  of  his  initiation  into  the  cheery  broth- 
erhood of  Pressmen,  was  now  admitted.  There  were  free 
admissions  for  Popular  Concerts  where  one  could  hear 
Professor  Burnett  and  Signor  Piatti  play  the  piano  and  vio- 
loncello, and  Santley  most  gloriously  sing,  and  Sims 
Reeves  deliver  Beethoven's  incomparable  "Adelaida"  with 
that  splendor  of  voice  and  style  that  will  never  be  sur- 
passed. The  Christy  Minstrels  of  St.  James's  Hall  be- 
guiled our  hero  of  a  stealthy  tear  or  two,  and  made  him. 
rot.r  with  laughter;  and  Blanchard's  Drury  Lane  Panto- 
mime of  "Beauty  and  the  Beast,"  with  Kate  Santley  as 
Azalea,  the  Peri,  and  Miss  Vokes  as  the  lovely  Zemira,  was 
an  eye-opener  to  a  youth  who  had  witnessed  only  provincial 
productions  in  his  native  country,  and  half  a  dozen  per- 
formances of  Schiller's  "Robbers,"  "Don  Carlos,"  and 
"The  Stranger"  of  Kotzebu  as  given  by  a  stock-company 
of  Bavarian  actors  at  the  Theater  of  Schwarz-Brettingen. 

Also  our  hero  was  privileged  to  witness  the  performances 
of  Mrs.  Wood  as  Miss  Hardcastle  in  "She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer," and  afterwards  in  the  extravaganza  of  "La  Belle 
Sauvage,"  at  the  St.  James's  Theater,  and  J.  S.  Clarke, 


THE    MAN    OE    IRON  125 

then  drawing  the  town  with  "Amongst  the  Breakers'* 
at  the  Strand. 

At  the  Olympic,  Patti  Josephs  was  touching  the  hearts 
of  the  British  Public  as  Little  Em'ly,  Rowe  was  tickling 
people  to  laughter  with  the  unctuosities  and  impecuni- 
osities  of  Micawber,  a  certain  Mr.  Henry  Irving  was  hold- 
ing his  audiences  spellbound  with  the  sardonic  slyness  and 
hypocritical  cunning  displayed  in  his  performance  of  Uriah 
Heep,  and  beautiful  Mrs.  Rousby  was  breaking  hearts  at 
the  Queen's  Theater.  And  evenings  spent  with  these,  or 
with  Professor  Pepper  at  the  Polytechnic,  or  the  German 
Reeds,  who  were  playing  Gilbert  and  Sullivan's  little 
operas,  and  ' '  Cox  and  Box ' '  at  the  Gallery  of  Illustration, 
— were  crowned  by  suppers  in  the  grill-room  of  "The 
Albion"  in  Drury  Lane,  or  at  Evan's  at  the  north-west 
corner  of  Covent  Garden.  And  these  were  merry  times 
and  merry  mimes,  my  masters,  and  we  shall  not  look  upon 
their  like  again. 

And  in  the  environment  I  have  endeavored  to  depict, 
and  with  the  associates  I  have  tried  to  delineate,  and  with 
the  pleasant  hum  and  swirl  of  this  new  life  setting  the  tune 
for  his  young  pulses  and  mingling  with  his  blood,  Caro- 
lan's  temperament  recovered  its  elasticity,  and  his  charac- 
ter developed  apace.  The  magic  gift  of  sympathy  found  in 
the  gutter  on  that  night  of  homeless,  hungry  wandering 
was  his  now,  never  to  be  lost  or  alienated.  He  had  learned 
much  when  he  had  discovered  how  to  fit  himself  inside  the 
ginger  kitten's  ragged  skin. 

The  bond  of  brotherhood,  established  between  a  shaggy- 
haired  boy  and  all  other  created  beings  capable  of  joy  and 
susceptible  to  suffering,  would  hold  unbroken  through  all 
the  years  to  come.  We  are  aware  that  the  confidence  of  Mr. 
Knewbit  had  been  won  that  morning  on  Waterloo  Bridge, 
and  we  have  heard  Miss  Ling  (not  ordinarily  given  to 
broach  the  subject  of  the  faithless  underbutler)  tell  him 
in  her  simple  way  of  the  desertion  that  had  left  her  kind 
heart  empty  and  sore.  We  may  know  also  that  Mr.  Tick- 
ing revealed,  with  the  fact  of  the  existence  of  the  invalid 
mother  resident  at  Brixton,  the  secret  that  he  was  beloved 
by  a  certain  Annie,  the  orphan  daughter  of  a  deceased 
relative,  who  lived  with  the  old  lady  as  housekeeper  and 
nurse.  Annie,  it  seemed,  had  a  little  fortune  of  her  own, 
and  was  so  kind,  so  clever  and  so  charming,  that  only  the 


126  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

indiscreetly-evident  anxiety  of  Ticking's  mother  to  bring 
about  a  match,  and  the  too  plainly  manifested  willingness 
of  Annie  to  accept  the  hand  of  Mr.  Ticking,  were  it  offered 
— held  him  back  from  becoming  an  engaged  man.  As  it 
was,  he  spoke,  in  somber  whispers,  of  an  amatory  entangle- 
ment with  a  splendid  creature,  not  good  as  Annie  was  good, 
but  possessing  the  beauty  in  whose  baleful  luster  honest 
prettiness  pales,  and  the  charm  whose  sorcery  kills  the 
conscience,  and  wakens  the  scorching  desires  of  man. 

"Passion! — there's  no  going  against  that,  you  know!" 
he  would  say,  wagging  his  head  dismally,  ' '  and  if  ever  you 
see  Leah,  you'll  understand." 

But  when  P.  C.  Breagh  did  see  Leah,  who  presided  over 
the  gaudy  necktie  and  imitation  gold  cuff-link  department 
at  an  East  Strand  hosier's,  he  failed  to  understand  at  all. 
She  had  big  burnt-out  dusky-brown  eyes  and  loops  of  coarse 
black  hair,  and  a  big  bust  and  a  tiny  waist  with  a  gilt 
dog-collar  belt  about  it.  Ticking  had  paid  for  the  belt 
when  he  had  taken  her  to  the  Crystal  Palace,  and  she  had 
admired  the  trinket  on  one  of  the  fancy  stalls  in  the 
French  Court  next  the  Great  Concert  Hall.  And  there 
had  been  a  display  of  fireworks  on  the  Terrace,  and  in  the 
dark  interval  between  two  set-pieces  there  had  been  a 
mutual  declaration;  and  the  moth  Ticking  had  singed  his 
wings  in  the  flame  of  illicit  passion,  and  would  return  to 
flutter  about  the  candle,  he  supposed,  until  he  met  his 
doom. 

Mr.  Mounteney  spoke  of  Passion  as  well  as  Mr.  Ticking, 
but  in  the  exhausted  accents  of  a  world-weary  cynic  who 
had  drunk  of  the  cup  to  satiety.  He  knew  so  much  of 
women,  thanks  to  "Araminta,"  that  he  had  nothing  more 
to  learn.  Yet  when  a  pert  and  pretty  waitress,  who  served 
the  table  at  which  he  commonly  lunched  at  a  Fleet  Street 
chop-house,  proved  ungrateful  after  six  months  of  extra 
tips,  trips  to  Kew  and  Rosherville  Gardens  and  innumer- 
able theater  tickets,  and  told  Mr.  Mounteney  in  the  plainest 
terms  that  he  was  "too  bow-windowy  in  figure  for  a 
beau,"  and  that  she  preferred  young  swells  on  the  Stock 
Exchange  to  elderly  newspaper  gents,  Mounteney — the  ex- 
pressed preference  having  been  illustrated  by  demonstra- 
tion,— was  tragically  comic  in  his  manifestations  of 
wounded  vanity,  quite  funnily  touching  in  his  display  of 
jealousy  and  despair.  For  a  whole  week  following  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  127 

betrayal  his  pale  blue  eyes  were  suffused  with  tears,  his 
Roman  nose  was  red,  and  his  light  hair  stood  up  on  end, 
where  his  despairing  fingers  had  rumpled  it.  His  black 
ribbon  necktie  straggled  untied  over  a  limp  shirt-front,  the 
violet-ink-pencil  memoranda  on  his  paper  cuffs  had  merged 
into  blotches  and  blurs. 

Then  suddenly  his  dismal  countenance  recovered  its  mild 
placidity,  his  necktie  was  tied,  his  hair  lay  once  more  in 
smoothly  brushed  streaks  across  his  shining  crown.  His 
nose  paled,  his  eyes  reverted  to  their  purely  normal  wateri- 
ness.  It  seemed  that  nestling  amid  the  grasses  at  the 
feet  of  one  who  had  plucked  the  fairest  flowers  that  bloom 
in  the  garden  of  Passion  and  sickened  of  their  cloying 
perfume  and  dazzling  hues,  the  disillusioned  Mounteney 
had  discovered  a  simple  violet,  and  that  the  humble  sweet- 
ness and  modest  beauty  of  this  shrinking  blossom  had  re- 
freshed his  jaded  senses  and  solaced  his  wearied  mind. 

In  terms  less  obscure,  Mr.  Ticking  explained  that  the 
humble  violet  was  a  certain  Miss  Rooper,  who  for  a  monthly 
salary  attended  at  the  office  of  the  Ladies'  Mentor  thrice 
a  week  to  assist  in  the  Herculean  task  of  opening  the  letters 
addressed  to  "Araminta" — take  down  in  shorthand  her 
representative's  replies  to  the  interrogations  therein  con- 
tained— make  notes  of  queries  impossible  to  answer  on  the 
spot,  and  ferret  out  the  answers  by  application  at  such 
leading  centers  of  information  as  the  Reading-room  of 
the  British  Museum,  Heralds'  College,  the  Zoological 
Gardens,  the  Doctors'  Commons  Will  Office,  Marshall  and 
Snel grove's,  Whiteley's,  Parkins  and  Gotto's,  Twinings', 
the  Burlington  Arcade,  Scotland  Yard,  and  the  Cooper- 
ative Stores.  Ticking  added  that  for  years  Miss  Rooper 
had  brought  her  luncheon-sandwiches  to  the  office  in  a  vel- 
vet reticule,  and  consumed  them  under  cover  of  the  lid  of 
her  desk,  but  that  now,  the  lady  being  regularly  engaged  to 
Mr.  Mounteney,  he  supposed  the  couple  would  go  out  to 
"Araminta's"  usual  ordinary  arm-in-arm.  It  would  be 
a  jolly  lark,  he  added,  if  Mounteney  took  his  betrothed  to 
his  customary  table,  as  Flossie  had  already  been  thrown 
over  by  the  young  jobber  from  Capel  Court. 

And  when  P.  C.  Breagh  saw  Flossie,  who  owned  a  turned- 
up  nose  (I  quote  Mr.  Ticking)  that  you  might  have  hung 
your  hat  on,  and  when  he  was  introduced  to  Miss  Rooper, 
who  was  on  the  shady  side  of  thirty-five  and  had  a  long 


128  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

sagacious  equine  face,  and  boasted  a  fringe  and  chignon 
and  waterfall  of  black  hair  as  coarse  as  the  mane  of  a 
Shetland  pony,  and  was  bridled  with  bands  of  "red  velvet, 
as  the  pony  might  have  been, — and  caparisoned  with  leather 
belts  and  strappings  garnished  with  steel  rivets,  and  tossed 
her  head  when  she  was  coquettish,  and  whinnied  when  she 
laughed,  and  looked  less  like  a  modest  violet  than  anything 
else  you  could  have  imagined,  he  wondered  very  much. 
For  Mr.  Mounteney  had  spoken  of  Passion  in  connection, 
with  the  faithless  Flossie,  and  by  the  latest  bulletins  his 
sentiment  for  Miss  Hooper  had  developed  into  Passion  of 
the  strictly  honorable  kind. 

Could  the  passion  on  which  Shakespeare  had  strung  the 
pearls  and  rubies  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  to  which  the 
lyre  of  Keats  throbbed  out  the  deathless  music  of ' '  Endym- 
ion"  have  anything  in  common  with  the  loves  of  Ticking 
and  Leah,  or  the  emotion  wakened  in  the  bosom  of  Mr. 
Mounteney  by  Flossie  and  Miss  Rooper  ? 

Could  the  emotion  of  which  Carolan  himself  was  con- 
scious, the  sudden,  fierce,  stinging  temptation  born  of  the 
bold  glance  of  a  pair  of  painted  eyes,  ogling  and  laughing 
from  under  a  clipped  fringe  and  a  tilted  hat,  partake  of 
the  nature,  be  worthy  of  the  designation?  For  Sin  beck- 
oned sometimes,  and  the  boy  would  tug  at  his  chain,  forged 
of  links  of  instilled  religion  and  honor,  instinctive  cleanli- 
ness and  a  sensitive,  secret  shrinking  from  the  purchase  of 
something  that  was  never  meant  to  be  bartered  or  sold. 

But  there  were  times  when,  sitting  at  the  rickety  but 
useful  and  capacious  old  davenport  in  the  room  from 
tenancy  of  which  Miss  Morency  had  been  ejected,  the  pen 
would  hang  idle  between  the  fingers  of  P.  C.  Breagh,  and 
the  article  commissioned  by  the  benevolent  editor  of  the 
Caniberwell  Clarion  or  the  Islington  Excelsior,  or  the  more 
ambitious  magazine-story  that  was  being  written  as  a  bait 
to  catch  a  literary  reputation, — and  would  return  as  surely 
as  the  swallow  of  the  previous  summer,  from  the  editorial 
offices  of  BlacJcwood's,  or  the  Cornhill,  or  even  Tinsley's 
— would  hang  fire. 

"With  his  elbows  on  the  blotting-pad,  exposing  to  view 
the  shiny  places  on  the  right-hand  cuff  of  the  old  serge 
jacket,  and  his  eyes  vaguely  staring  at  the  strip  of  London 
sky  seen  above  the  chimney-pots  of  Bernard  Street,  P.  C. 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  129 

JtJreagh  would  fall  into  a  brown  study,  a  dreamy  reverie 
of  the  kind  to  which  hopeful  Youth  is  prone. 

The  outer  angles  of  the  eyebrows  would  lift,  giving  an 
eager,  wistful  look  to  the  gray  eyes  that  had  specks  of 
brown  and  golden  dust  in  them,  the  nostrils  of  the  short, 
determined  nose  would  expand  as  though  in  imagination 
they  were  inhaling  some  rare,  strange,  delicate  fragrance, — 
the  upper  lip  would  lift  at  the  corners,  showing  the  canines 
of  the  upper  jaw — a  mouth  of  this  kind  can  be  fierce,  and 
yet  you  have  an  example  of  it  in  the  Laughing  Faun. 

A  delicate,  rushing  sweetness  would  envelop,  enter  and 
possess  him,  body  and  brain  and  mind  and  soul,  and  his 
heart  would  beat  fiercely  for  a  minute  or  so,  and  then  not 
seem  to  beat  at  all ;  and  he  would  scarcely  be  able  to  breathe 
for  the  strange  new  joy,  and  the  subtle,  mysterious  sense 
of  being  drawn  to  and  mingled  with  the  being  of  another, 
some  one  wholly  and  unutterably  beloved  and  dear.  .  .  . 

A  touch,  light  as  a  flower,  would  visit  his  forehead,  and 
a  voice,  small  and  silvery-clear,  and  with  a  liquid  tremble 
in  it  that  might  have  been  mirth  or  shyness,  would  sound 
in  his  ears  again.  He  would  sigh  and  lean  back,  shutting 
his  eyes,  and  feel  the  slight  yet  firm  support  of  the  delicate 
limbs  and  slender  body,  and  the  small  soft  hand  would  stir 
and  flutter  in  his  palm  like  a  captured  bird,  and  he  would 
find  himself  painting  in  the  choicest  colors  of  his  mental 
palette  upon  the  background  of  London  sky  or  neutral- 
tinted  wall-paper — a  face  that  was  not  in  the  least  like 
Krimhilde-Brunhilde  's.  And  then  he  would  frown,  and 
shake  himself  as  a  red  setter  might  have  done,  plunging 
back  out  of  dripping  sedges  at  the  sound  of  its  master's 
whistle,  and  hurl  himself  savagely  upon  the  pile  of  blank 
pages  before  him,  and  never  pause  again  until  the  daily 
task  was  done.  Or — supposing  this  retrospective  mood 
to  have  seized  him  at  the  ending  of  his  stint  of  labor,  he 
would  set  his  teeth,  summon  up  'the  image  of  his  colossal 
beloved,  and  savagely  add  to  her  inches  all  that  she  had  lost 
since  his  meeting  with  the  frozen  Infanta  at  the  Convent, 
Kensington  Square.  For  the  truth  must  be  told,  and  the 
painful  fact  faced, — that  since  that  day  the  heroic  Ideal  of 
P.  C.  Breagh  had  been  steadily  shrinking;  and  the  hour 
was  coming  when  her  golden  tresses  were  to  darken  to  the 
black-brown  hue  of  rain-soaked  oak  leaves  in  Winter, — 
when  her  roseate  cheeks  were  to  blanch  to  the  hue  of  old 


130  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

ivory,  when  her  towering  stature  and  robust  limbs  were  to 
dwindle  to  the  slender  shape  and  delicate  extremities  of  an 
elfin  maiden's,  and  her  late  worshiper  was  shamelessly  to 
dote  upon  the  change. 

But  had  this  been  foretold  to  P.  C.  Breagh,  he  would 
have  scouted  the  prophet  as  an  impostor,  and  laughed  the 
prophecy  to  scorn.  Came  a  day,  when,  fastidiously 
groomed,  and  dressed  in  well-cut,  carefully  chosen  clothes, 
he  called  upon  Monica  at  the  Convent,  this  time  to  apprize 
her  of  the  loss  of  his  inheritance,  and  to  assure  her  of  his 
present  well-being,  despite  the  change  in  his  prospects 
brought  about  by  the  defalcations  of  Mustey  and  Son. 

He  had  not  intended  to  ask  after  the  Infanta ;  the  query 
slipped  out  quite  accidentally.  But  when  Monica  returned 
that  by  the  latest  advice  received  from  France,  the  health 
of  Mademoiselle  Bayard  might  be  pronounced  excellent, 
the  querist  was  conscious  of  a  tightness  within  his  collar, 
and  a  sudden  rush  of  blood  reddened  him  to  the  hair  as 
his  sister  added : 

"She  may  be  'Madame'  and  not  'Mademoiselle'  to-day, 
since  what  date  is  uncertain.  For  her  marriage  was  to 
take  place  almost  instantly  on  her  return  to  Paris,  she 
told  us.  Her  father— he  is  Colonel  of  the  777th  Mounted 
Chasseurs  of  the  Imperial  Guard — had  set  his  heart  on 
this — she  worships  him — she  would  consent  to  any  sacrifice 
—would  let  herself  be  cut  to  pieces  if  he  but  wished  it. 
Dear  Juliette!" 

P.  C.  Breagh  got  out,  with  difficulty,  "  Then— but— look 
here,  doesn't  she  love  the  fellow?" 

The  word  last  but  three  got  out  with  difficulty.  His 
throat  was  hurt  by  its  passage.  He  gulped  as  he  stared 
at  Monica,  moistening  his  dry  lips. 

"The  fellow."  Her  eyes  widened.  "You  don't  call 
the  Colonel— that?  ..." 

"Of  course  not.  I  referred  to  the  young  lady's  husband. 
Actual  or  yet  expectant."  He  boggled  horribly  in  the 
attempt  to  seem  natural  and  at  ease.  "Why  should  it  be 
a  sacrifice  to  obey  her  father — what  has  the — the  affair  got 
in  common  with  cutting  to  pieces  if  she — if  she — 

He  stuck  there.  Monica,  of  all  Juliette's  friends  alone 
held  worthy  to  share  the  aching  secret,  had  not  been  told, 
for  her  own  peace  of  mind.  Yet,  loving  much,  she  had  seen 
much.  Now  she  sat  silent.  But  a  little  line  of  distress 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  131 

came  between  her  placid  eyebrows,  and  tears  were  gather- 
ing behind  the  beautiful,  tender  eyes,  in  readiness  to  fall 
when  next  they  might  unseen.  Carolan  went  on,  not  look- 
ing at  her : 

"She  said  he  was  a  noble  gentleman, — master  of  the 
sword,  and  brave  as  a  lion.  That  doesn't  suggest  that  she 
— would  think  herself  sacrificed  in  marrying  him  ? ' ' 

A  sigh  heaved  Monica's  breast  and  exhaled  unnoticed. 
He  mumbled  with  a  hangdog  grace: 

"Could  you,  when  you  happen  to  write,  just  give  her 
a  message?  Don't  ask  what  it  means — it  has  to  do  with 
something  we  spoke  of  here  the  other  day  when  you  were 
out  of  the  room. ' ' 

His  eyes  sought  one  particular  square  in  the  center  of 
the  beeswaxed  parquet,  where  he  had  sat  leaning  against 
the  Infanta's  knees. 

"Tell  her  that  the  man — a  fellow-student  of  mine  at 
Schwarz-Brettingen — realized  not  long  after  the — the  girl 
— she  will  remember  the  girl's  name! — after  the  girl  had 
made  the  offer — she  will  not  have  forgotten  what  that  was ! 
— from  how  kind  and  generous  a  heart  it  came.  And  she 
will  believe — she  must  believe ! — that  he  has  loathed  him- 
self heartily  for  the  brutal  way  in  which  he  answered  her. 
And  he  entreats  her  to  forgive,  and  he  thanks  her  with 
all " 

Something  splashed  upon  the  clenched  hand  with  which 
he  had  unconsciously  emphasized  his  utterance.  He  wiped 
<L  ^  the  drop  furtively,  and  said,  still  not  looking  at  Monica, 
but  scowling  at  that  particular  square  in  the  middle  of  the 
parquet : 

' '  With  all  his  heart !    You  won 't  forget  ? ' ' 

He  made  her  promise  it,  and  left  her  wondering. 


XVIII 

BEING  a  daughter  of  France,  and  a  Parisienne  to  the 
finger-tips,  it  could  not  be  that  the  return  to  Paris,  delight- 
ful capital  where  all  the  brilliancy,  esprit,  good  taste,  and 
refinement  of  modern  life  were  concentrated,  should  fail  to 
rejoice  the  heart  of  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard.  Her  charac- 
teristic quality  of  humor,  a  trait  not  derived  from  the 


132 

paternal  strain,  made  her  omit  three  items  from  the  list 
of  purchases  commanded  by  M.  le  Colonel.  To  supply 
oneself  beforehand  with  a  complete  bridal  costume  in  the 
view  of  immediate  union  with  a  husband  never  to  one's 
knowledge  previously  beheld,  could  anything  be  more  out- 
rageously impossible !  Juliette  knew  that  she  would  titter 
hysterically  behind  the  stately  backs  of  the  powdered  and 
frock-coated  gentlemen  who  parade  Departments,  and 
probably  laugh  to  madness  in  the  faces  of  the  powdered 
and  frizzled  young  ladies  who  should  seek  to  minister  to 
her  needs. 

And  so,  though  the  fresh  and  charming  toilettes  of  the 
evening,  the  promenade  and  the  theater,  with  the  suitable 
lingerie,  were  added  to  Juliette's  wardrobe,  the  nuptial 
robe,  crown,  and  veil  remained  unbought. 

Paris,  a  seething  pot  since  the  Auteuil  assassination 
early  in  that  January,  was  in  a  state  of  ebullition  upon 
Juliette's  return.  Passing  in  a  fiacre  along  the  Champs 
filysees,  the  progress  of  Mademoiselle's  hired  vehicle  was 
stopped.  A  regiment  of  mounted  Chasseurs  and  a  detach- 
ment of  the  Guides  blocked  the  Avenue  to  stem  the  black 
torrents  of  people  rolling  toward  Neuilly,  to  attend  the 
funeral  of  the  murdered  journalist  Victor  Noir.  The 
National  Guards  occupied  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  and 
in  front  of  the  Corps  Legislatif  was  a  battalion  of  infantry, 
besides  a  force  of  sergents  de  ville.  Yet  by  other  thorough- 
fares inky  streams  of  men  and  women  poured  steadily 
nor '-west,  and  a  vast  concourse  packed  the  Passage  Mas- 
sena,  where  the  dead  man  had  lived,  and  when  his  coffin 
was  brought  out,  weeping  friends  unharnessed  the  bony 
black  horses  from  the  shabby  hearse,  and  six  of  them,  hug- 
ging the  pole,  drew  it  to  the  Cemetery. 

But  no  speeches  were  made,  though  an  instant  previous 
to  the  lowering  of  the  coffin  a  disheveled,  red-eyed  woman 
leaped  upon  the  plinth  of  a  memorial  column  that  neigh- 
bored the  grave  dug  in  the  Jewish  quarter  of  the  Cemetery, 
and  shrieked : 

' '  He  was  only  twenty-two,  and  was  to  have  been  married 
in  a  few  days!  Vengeance  upon  the  nephew  of  the  Corsi- 
can  wild  boar!  Death  to  the  murderer  Bonaparte  and  all 
his  bloody  race!  ..." 

The  rest  was  lost  in  the  strangled  whoopings  of  hysteria. 
But  upon  the  ten  thousand  faces  that  had  turned  her  way 


THE   MAN  DE  IRON  133 

a  crimson  glow  was  thrown,  as  though,  the  sun  of  Imperial 
glory  were  indeed  about  to  set,  and  a  yell  went  up  that 
might  have  reached  the  ears  of  the  princely  homicide 
lodged  in  the  Conciergerie  by  order  of  his  Imperial  rela- 
tive, pending  that  extravagant  farce  of  the  Tribunal  of 
Tours.  There  was  a  rush  of  police,  and  the  woman  was 
pulled  down  and  spirited  away,  it  is  said,  by  Revolution- 
ists! But  the  Marseillaise  had  already  cried  more  loudly 
than  the  red-eyed  woman,  and  had  been  heard  to  greater 
effect.  Indeed,  upon  the  previous  day  M.  Rochefort  had 
attended  the  tribune  of  the  Corps  Legislatif ,  and  protested 
in  the  name  of  the  people  against  the  decree  ordering  for 
the  trial  of  the  noble  criminal  a  Special  High  Court  of 
Justice  composed  of  Judges  notoriously  amenable  to  Im- 
perial influence ; — proceeding  to  draw  between  Bonapartes 
and  Borgias  some  extremely  uncomplimentary  parallels. 

The  newspaper  was  seized  upon  the  morning  of  the  in- 
terment at  Neuilly,  and  its  editor  and  proprietor  served  on 
behalf  of  the  Crown  with  a  writ  of  prosecution  for  libel, 
by  the  special  authorization  of  the  Corps  Legislatif.  Thus 
M.  Rochefort  was  rendered  too  late  for  the  ceremony. 
But  one  of  the  huge  crowds  of  assistant  mourners,  rolling 
back  upon  Paris,  encountered  him,  in  a  hackney  cab  on 
one  of  the  boulevards,  and  the  human  torrent  surging  and 
eddying  about  the  vehicle,  turned  it  round;  and  so  rolled 
and  roared  with  it  and  its  occupant  in  triumph  to  his  home. 

The  savage  faces,  the  sinister  cries,  the  significant  tokens 
of  popular  disaffection  and  incipient  revolt  affected 
Mademoiselle  Bayard  but  little,  it  must  be  owned.  Her 
dear  Parisians  were  for  some  reason  boiling  over.  How 
many  times  had  she  not  beheld  them  in  a  state  of  ebulli- 
tion? French  blood  is  easily  heated,  see  you  well!  A 
little  patience  and  the  people  would  quiet  down. 

In  the  eyes  of  Juliette  and  how  many  other  daughters  of 
the  Empire,  the  personality  of  the  stoutish  little  gentleman 
with  the  heavy  sallow  face,  dull  regard,  spiky  mustache 
and  dyed  brown  chin-tuft  was  invested  with  an  aureole 
of  semi-divinity.  To  her  as  to  her  sisters,  the  Emperor 
stood  for  France. 

Born  nineteen  years  before  in  the  very  month  of  the 
Coup  d'fitat  of  1851,  what  should  she  know  of  the  betray- 
als, treacheries,  crimes  that  had  been  so  many  steps  in  the 
ladder  leading  the  man  on  to  success.  A  tidal  wave  of 


134  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

human  blood  had  set  him  upon  the  throne  of  St.  Louis ;  the 
Church,  first  duped,  afterward  to  be  shorn  by  him  of 
power,  had  poured  her  hallowed  oils  upon  his  head ;  titles, 
dignities,  gold,  had  streamed  from  his  open  hands  upon  his 
supporters;  the  tradition  of  the  Army  that  had  throned 
him  was  devotion  to  his  name. 

And  Juliette  was  a  soldier's  daughter.  How,  then,  not 
reverence  the  Emperor,  from  whose  ermined  purples  Field- 
Marshal's  batons,  Grand  Crosses  of  the  Legion  of  Honor, 
coveted  commands,  desired  steps,  constantly  dropped. 
That  the  blind,  unreasoning  support  hitherto  accorded  to 
him  by  the  Army  was  weakening, — that  50,000  private 
soldiers'  votes  would  be  recorded  against  him  in  the  forth- 
coming plebiscitum, — how  was  a  mere  girl  to  conceive  of 
this? 

That  her  beloved  Paris,  transformed  by  him  into  the 
gayest  and  most  splendid  of  European  capitals,  was  totter- 
ing on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy,  she  would  not  have  be- 
lieved. Had  she  been  told  that  High  Finance  is  too  often 
synonymous  with  knavish  trickery,  that  those  who  carry 
out  great  civic  works  may  drain  treasuries  of  the  national 
millions — it  would  have  conveyed  nothing  to  her.  You 
cannot  talk  to  a  school-girl  in  the  shibboleth  of  the  Bourse. 

But  one  sign  of  the  trend  of  popular  resentment  etched 
itself  as  by  a  biting  acid  on  her  memory.  When  the  sulky 
driver  of  the  ramshackle  vehicle  pulled  up  in  the  Avenue 
of  the  Champs  Elysees,  in  obedience  to  the  upraised  sword- 
arm  and  authoritative  voice  of  a  lieutenant  of  mounted 
Chasseurs,  Juliette,  thrilling  with  girlish  delight  at  the 
sight  of  the  dear,  familiar  uniform,  let  down  the  window 
and  thrust  forth  her  charming  head.  And  at  that  moment 
a  party  of  four  equestrians,  followed  by  two  grooms  in  the 
Imperial  livery,  came  galloping  westward,  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Pont  Royal. 

Pray  picture  to  yourself  the  congested  condition  of  this 
part  of  the  Avenue,  the  squadron  blocking  its  throat,  the 
halted  cab,  and  the  lengthy  queue  of  phaetons,  Americaines, 
britzkas,  dogcarts,  and  Victorias,  forming  up  on  the  left 
hand  of  the  road  to  rear  of  it,  containing  ladies  old  and 
young,  pretty  or  plain,  accompanied  by  the  males  of  their 
species ;  while  nursemaids  pushing  babies  in  perambulators, 
elderly  gentlemen  out  for  constitutionals,  and  other  harm- 
less pedestrians,  were  marshaled  on  the  right,  under  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  135 

surveillance  of  imperious  policemen,  who  meddled  not  at 
all  with  certain  isolated  clumps  of  somber-looking  persons 
dressed  in  black;  broken  links  of  one  of  the  huge  proces- 
sions of  mourners,  checked  upon  their  way  to  the  Cemetery 
at  Neuilly. 

There  was  a  stir  of  interest,  and  every  eye  was  drawn  to 
the  little  cavalcade,  previously  mentioned,  whose  leaders, 
seeing  the  barrier  of  humanity,  horseflesh  and  steel  drawn 
across  the  thoroughfare,  checked  their  horses  and  came 
forward  at  a  walk.  Military  Governor  was  written  large 
upon  a  double-chinned,  stiff-necked,  gray-mustached  and 
imperialed  personage  who  bestrode  a  high-actioned  brown 
charger,  and  wore  the  undress  uniform  of  a  General  of 
Division  of  the  Service  of  Engineers.  When  he  leaned  to 
speak  in  the  ear  of  the  slender,  brown-haired,  blue-eyed 
boy  who  rode  upon  his  right  hand,  you  saw  in  the  wearer 
of  the  glossy  silk  topper,  the  accurately  cut,  single-breasted 
black  coat  and  dark  gray-strapped  trousers — ending  in 
the  daintiest  of  little  polished  boots,  with  gold  spurs — 
the  heir  of  the  Imperial  throne  of  France. 

A  cocked-hatted,  white-plumed  Imperial  aide-de-camp 
in  blue-and-gold,  and  a  green-and-silver  Palace  equerry 
followed  in  attendance,  succeeded  at  a  respectful  distance 
by  two  grooms  in  the  livery  of  the  Tuileries;  and  a  troop 
of  the  glorious  beings  known  as  Cent  Gardes  came  clatter- 
ing after,  balanced  to  a  hair  on  their  shiny,  prancing  black 
horses,  the  long  white  horse-tails  streaming  from  their 
polished  steel  helmets,  with  tricolored  side-plumes  and 
eagled  brass  plates,  their  brass-nutted  steel  cuirasses  re- 
flecting their  lacquered  mustaches  and  the  adoring  glances 
of  enamored  femininity,  their  sky-blue  tunics  with  the  scar- 
let and  golden  collars,  their  golden  epaulettes  and  aiguil- 
lettes,  their  gauntleted  gloves  of  white  leather,  their  skin- 
tight breeches  of  snowy  buckskin,  their  brilliantly  polished 
boots  with  huge  brass  roweled,  steel-spiked  spurs,  glancing 
and  dancing,  clinking  and  twinkling  in  the  sun. 

Ah  me!  Their  morals  were  doubtful,  those  mustached 
and  chin-tufted  Antinouses  of  the  Guard,  as  not  only  giddy 
work-girls  and  milliners,  but  fast  variety  actresses  and 
frisky  ladies  of  fashion  were  perfectly  aware.  But  they 
were  splendid,  stately,  expensive  creatures,  and  so  worthy 
to  clatter  at  Imperial  heels. 

And  so  gallant  was  the  youthful  figure  they  attended  and 


136  THE    MAN    OF    IRON" 

guarded ;  so  well-graced  the  seat  upon  the  spirited  English, 
chestnut,  so  light  the  boyish  hand  upon  the  mare's  snaffle- 
rein,  so  frank  and  debonair  the  smile  with  which  he  ac- 
knowledged the  scanty  salutations  of  a  few  of  the  bystand- 
ers; that  Juliette's  heart  flew  to  him  with  her  eyes,  and 
there  broke  from  her  in  a  voice  so  clear  and  thrilling  that 
the  object  of  her  homage  started  in  his  saddle : 
"Vive  le  Prince!  Vive  le  Prince  Imperial!" 

The  French  are  tender  to  youth  and  beauty,  accessible 
to  sentiment,  lovers  of  Romance.  Other  voices  joined  in 
the  cry,  hats  not  ominously  furbished  with  crape  were 
lifted  in  salutation;  a  charming  dignity  was  manifested 
in  the  boy's  reception  of  these  tokens  of  good-will. 

You  can  conceive  the  picture,  set  in  the  beautiful  sce- 
nery of  the  Champs  Elysees,  to  the  roll  of  carriages  in 
the  great  avenues,  the  glint  of  wintry  sunshine  on  still  or 
leaping  water,  the  nip  of  keen  sweet  air,  perfumed  with 
the  scent  of  damp  grass  and  dead  leaves  and  wood-smoke. 
Delicate  tracery  of  branches  as  yet  bare,  interspersed  with 
the  hardy  green  of  pines,  laurels,  and  larches  against  a 
sky  pale  blue  as  harebell,  streaked  with  broad  floating 
scarves  of  gray-white  vapor,  made  a  background  for  the 
green- jacketed,  red-breeched  Chasseurs  on  their  bony, 
brown  horses, — for  the  knots  of  strollers,  curious  or  con- 
temptuous,— for  the  broken  masses  of  the  crowd  of  would- 
be  demonstrators,  arrested  in  their  progress  by  the  block- 
ing of  the  way.  In  the  right  foreground  suppose  the  slim 
young  Napoleon  sitting  easily  on  the  fidgety,  fretful  chest- 
nut,— the  Military  General  balanced  on  his  big  champing 
charger, — the  blue-and-gold  aide  and  the  green-and-silver 
.equerry,  the  grooms  and  the  escort  of  Cent  Gardes  looking 
decorously  between  the  ears  of  their  well-trained,  shining 
beasts.  To  the  left  place  the  debilitated  fiacre  with  its 
weary  Rosinante  and  red-nosed  sulky  Jehu,  and  leaning 
from  the  open  window  of  the  vehicle—Juliette. 

Perhaps  you  can  see  her,  a  little  toque  of  Persian  lamb- 
skin, with  a  blue  wing  in  it,  on  her  high-piled  hair, — with  a 
coquettish  jacket  of  corduroy-velvet  of  the  shade  known 
in  the  spring  of  that  year  as  Bismarck  gray, — trimmed  with 
the  lambskin,  fitting  close  to  her  slender  shape.  She  wore 
a  plain  black  silk  skirt  looped  high  over  a  vivid  red  cloth 
petticoat — it  was  a  fashionable  style  of  costume  that  year 


THE    MAX    OF    IRON  137 

— and  very  much  worn.  A  bright  rose  bloomed  in  each 
cheek,  pale  as  she  was  ordinarily;  and  her  black  brows 
were  spread  and  lifted  joyously,  and  her  eyes  shone  blue 
as  sapphires  in  contrast  with  a  little  knot  of  violets  at  her 
breast  and  the  big  bunch  held  in  her  little  gray-gloved 
hand.  And  with  a  very  fair  aim  she  threw  the  latter  so 
that  the  bundle  of  wet  fragrance  lightly  hit  the  saddleflap 
close  to  the  knee  of  the  Imperial  stripling,  and  behind  the 
shoulder  of  the  swerving  chestnut,  as  she  cried  again : 

"Vive  le  Prince  Imperial!" 

The  boy  bowed  to  her,  blushing  at  her  beauty  and  her 
loyal  enthusiasm, — the  equerry,  slimmest  of  the  officers  in 
attendance,  dismounted  and  picked  up  the  flowers.  A 
trumpet  sounded,  a  short,  sharp  order  was  given,  there 
was  a  trampling  of  hoofs  and  a  clinking  of  bridles  as  the 
files  wheeled  right  and  left,  leaving  a  broad  road  open 
between  a  double  rank  of  saluting  troopers,  and  the  Prince 
with  his  Governor  and  following  rode  down  this  open  vista 
and  cantered  away  by  route  of  the  Avenue  de  1'Impera- 
trice,  in  the  direction  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

The  boy  held  in  his  whip-hand-  the  bunch  of  violets 
handed  him  by  the  equerry.  Only  a  little  grayish  sand 
clung  to  some  of  the  dark,  shining  leaves.  He  sniffed 
their  fragrance  and  glanced  back  as  the  trumpet  rang  out 
behind  them,  and  the  Avenue  was  once  more  blocked  with 
mounted  Chasseurs. 


XIX 

HE  was  fourteen,  delicate  and  rather  backward  for  his 
age,  owing  to  the  inevitable  drawbacks  of  his  environment. 
Since  the  salvo  of  a  hundred-and-one  guns  announcing  the 
birth  of  a  Prince  Imperial  had  crashed  from  the  battery 
of  the  Esplanade  of  the  Invalides,  to  be  echoed  from  every 
fortress  throughout  the  Empire ;  and  bells  had  pealed  from 
every  steeple,  flags  had  broached  from  every  staff-head, 
and  dusk-fall  had  seen  every  city,  town,  or  village,  ablaze 
with  illumination, — had  he  not  been  environed  with  pre- 
cautions, lapped  in  luxury?  Where  another  baby  would 
have  slumbered  in  a  wicker  bassinette,  the  child  of  France 
cried  in  a  cradle  of  artistic  goldsmithery.  And  the  three 
great  official  bodies  of  the  State,  the  Delegates  from  all 


138  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  constituted  Authorities  paid  homage.  And  they  en- 
rolled him  in  the  First  Regiment  of  Grenadiers  of  the 
Imperial  Guard  on  the  day  of  his  birth,  and  pinned  the 
Grand  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  on  his  bib  when  he 
was  forty-eight  hours  old. 

To  gratify  the  paternal  ambition  of  a  father  who  had 
dreaded  the  stigma  of  childlessness,  this  graft  of  his  race 
was  to  be  forced  into  precocious  maturity.  You  might 
have  seen  the  little  creature  at  six  months  of  age  strapped 
in  a  cane  chair-saddle  upon  the  back  of  a  Shetland  pony. 
At  five  he  could  ride  a  military  charger.  Dressed  in  the 
white-faced  blue  uniform  of  the  First  Grenadiers  of  the 
Guard,  his  tiny  face  hidden  in  a  huge  fur  shako  with  a 
white  plume  and  galons  and  a  huge  brass-eagled  fore-plate, 
you  saw  him  with  the  Emperor  at  Imperial  Reviews. 

It  is  uncertain  whether  he  was  ever  soothed  to  sleep 
with  the  French  equivalent  of  the  rhyme  of  Baby  Bunting, 
whether  he  ever  learned  of  the  Archer  who  shot  at  a  frog, 
or  was  thrilled  by  the  adventures  of  Jack  the  Giant  Killer. 
We  know  that  the  Napoleonic  tradition  was  his  ABC,  the 
Third  Empire  his  primer.  At  the  time  of  the  war  with 
Italy,  he  being  then  some  three  years  of  age,  his  utterances 
on  the  subject  were  quoted  in  the  daily  papers  as  miracles 
of  wisdom — marvels  of  acumen.  His  seventh  birthday 
had  been  celebrated  by  the  production  of  a  Military  Spec- 
tacle, in  the  course  of  which  real  cannon  were  fired  and 
real  military  evolutions  performed  upon  the  stage.  His 
great- uncle  on  a  white  horse,  in  the  little  cocked  hat  and 
gray  capote  of  History,  was  the  hero,  you  may  be  sure; 
and  three  hundred  soldiers'  sons  of  his  own  age  filled  the 
dress  circle,  stalls  and  upper  tiers.  One  likes  the  pretty 
story  of  the  fair-haired  child  going  down  among  these 
little  comrades  to  distribute  smiles  and  bonbons.  One  can 
understand  the  father's  pride  in  the  laborious  pot-hooks 
and  hangers  that  compliment  him  upon  the  taking  of 
Mexico — word  of  ill  omen  in  Imperialist  ears! — and  the 
scrawled  postscript  that  tells  how  his  horse  kicked  at 
exercise  that  morning,  but  that  he  sat  tight  and  did  not 
fall.  It  was  not  for  a  long,  long  time  to  dawn  upon  the 
expanding  mind  behind  the  beautiful,  bright  blue  eyes, 
that  the  Throne  Imperial  of  France  was  a  saddle  insecurely 
girthed  upon  a  kicking  charger,  and  that  the  paternal 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  139 

horsemanship  had  been,  and  frequently  was  severely  taxed 
in  the  effort  to  stick  on. 

You  may  imagine  the  query,  Why? — forming  in  the 
mind  of  seven  years.  Perhaps  you  see  him  in  his  lace- 
collared,  belted  blouse  and  wide  Breton  breeches  of  black 
velvet,  scarlet  silk  stockings  and  buckled  shoes,  curled  up 
upon  the  blue-and-golden  cushion  of  the  gilded  chair  of 
State  upon  the  three-step  dai's  in  the  Throne  Boom  of  the 
Tuileries,  where,  while  their  Imperial  Majesties  dined,  he 
loved  to  play  hide-and-seek  with  his  tutor  and  an  aide-de- 
camp or  so ;  and  wearied  with  play,  conceive  him  dreaming 
under  the  gorgeous  crimson  velvet  canopy  powdered  with 
golden  N's  and  symbolical  bees,  edged  with  laurel  leaves 
of  beaten  gold,  and  surmounted  by  a  great  golden  eagle, 
perched  with  outstretched  wings  upon  a  laurel  Crown. 

Under  the  brooding  wings  of  the  Eagle  on  the  Crown 
this  child  of  the  Empire  wondered  about  many  things.  .  .  . 
Did  any  discovery  connected  with  the  peculiar  duties  de- 
volving upon  the  Cent  Gardes  and  the  Tuileries  Police 
ever  make  the  bright  young  head  toss  restlessly  on  its  pillow 
of  down?  For  he  must  one  day  have  learned  that  noise- 
less footsteps  patroled  the  corridors,  that  observant  eyes 
twinkled  at  every  keyhole — that  sharp  ears  were  listening 
at  every  chink  for  suspicious  sounds  not  only  by  night, 
for  the  terror  that  walketh  in  the  noonday  is  the  peculiar 
bugbear  of  Emperors  and  Kings  and  Presidents. 

One  may  be  very  sure  that  long  ere  another  seven  years 
had  browned  the  fair  hair,  he  was  familiar  with  the  fact 
that  the  guardian  angels  of  M.  Hyrvoix  and  M.  Legrange 
kept  unsleeping  watch  over  the  personal  safety  of  his 
father,  his  mother,  and  himself.  That  officials,  function- 
aries, ladies  of  the  Court,  and  lackeys,  male  and  female, 
were  maintained  under  constant  and  vigilant  surveillance. 
That  there  were  even  Police  to  watch  the  Police  who  kept 
the  Police  under  observation.  That  precautions  of  a  pe- 
culiarly special  and  delicate  nature  were  observed  with 
regard  to  the  food  prepared  in  the  Imperial  Kitchens  and 
the  wine  that  came  from  the  Imperial  Cellars,  lest  deadly 
poison  should  be  mingled  therein  by  those  who  did  not 
love  the  name  of  Bonaparte. 

He  learned,  next, — perhaps  the  knowledge  floated  in  the 
air  he  breathed  like  some  strange  pollen,  or  was  realized 


140  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

from  certain  experiences  garnered  during  Imperial  Prog- 
resses, Distributions  of  Awards,  Opening  Ceremonies,  and 
other  public  Functions, — that  there  were  many  of  these 
naughty  people,  who,  while  the  soldiers  and  certain  of  the 
townsfolk  in  the  streets  cried  "Vive  I'Empereur!"  "Vive 
rimperatrice!"  and  "Vive  le  Prince  Imperial!"  remained 
silent  even  though  they  uncovered,  and  a  vast  number 
who  not  only  did  not  cheer,  but  kept  their  hats  on,  and 
sometimes  hissed.  Following,  came  the  shocking  discovery 
that  there  existed  a  party  of  extremists  who  were  not  con- 
tent with  being  rude  and  making  ugly  noises,  but  had 
even  tried — and  tried  more  than  once — to  kill  the  Em- 
peror. .  .  . 

"To  kill  papa,  who  is  so  good  to  me!  .  .  ." 

In  a  glass  case  in  the  Empress's  cabinet  were  preserved 
the  crush-hat  and  the  cloak  worn  by  the  Emperor  on  the 
night  of  Orsini's  attempt  outside  the  Opera,  and  damaged 
by  a  splinter  from  one  of  the  exploding  bombs.  Perhaps 
that  glass  case  now  yielded  up  its  sinister  secret  to  the 
curious  questionings  of  a  child. 

The  discovery  that  this  father,  so  indulgent,  so  tender, 
and  so  much  beloved,  should  be  the  object  of  such  destroy- 
ing hate  as  was  cherished  by  these  nameless  men  was 
terrible.  You  may  go  farther  into  the  thing,  and  suppose 
its  breaking  in  upon  him  presently  that  many  thousands 
of  his  father's  subjects,  not  criminals  or  murderers,  but 
rather  estimable  persons  than  otherwise,  thrilled  with 
something  else  than  tenderness  at  the  mention  of  the  pa- 
ternal name,  and  that  the  Empire,  which  had  hitherto 
signified  for  him  the  adamantine  hub  on  which  rests  the 
pivot  of  this  spinning  world  of  ours — was  not  as  solidly 
founded  as  his  pedagogues  had  taught  him.  That  the 
Army,  the  Peasantry,  certain  of  the  Nobility — not  of  the 
Ancient  Regime — and  a  section  of  the  Bourgeoisie  sup- 
ported it;  but  that  by  the  educated  middle-class,  and  by 
the  intellectual,  professional  and  working-classes  it  was 
held  in  abomination — execrated  and  detested;  hated  with 
a  bitterness  that  intensified  from  day  to  day. 

The  cat  came  out  of  the  bag  a  full-grown  tiger.  Revela- 
tions, discoveries,  succeeded  one  another.  Disillusions  came 
crowding  thick  and  fast.  When  it  was'  discovered  that  he 
was  backward  for  his  age,  and  the  question  of  a  ne\y; 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  141 

private  tutor  was  being  discussed,  he  had  asked  his  Gov- 
ernor : 

"Could  I  not  go  to  a  day-school  like  Corvisart  and 
Fleury  and  the  Labedoyere  boys?" 

' '  Impossible,  Monseigneur ! ' '  was  the  answer. 

He  urged : 

"But,  mon  cher  General,  you  answer  that  to  so  many 
questions.  Pray,  this  time  explain  why?" 

Horribly  nonplussed,  the  military  governor  stammered : 

' '  The  heir  to  an  Imperial  Throne  could  not  be  sent  twice 
daily  to  a  day-school.  Not  to  be  dreamed  of!  Such  an 
innovation  would  be  the  signal  for  fresh  insults,  provoca- 
tion of  new  perils.  .  .  .  Never  could  it  be  allowed ! ' ' 

The  boy's  were  rather  dreamy  eyes,  under  the  silken 
plume  of  hair,  chestnut-brown  like  his  beautiful  mother's. 
They  were  proud  eyes,  too,  when  they  had  flashed  at  the 
word  "insult."  And  brave,  for  mention  of  "perils"  only 
made  them  smile.  He  said  thoughtfully  that  morning, 
leaning  his  elbow  on  an  unfinished  Latin  exercise  that  lay 
on  the  table  in  the  window  of  his  study  at  the  Chateau  of 
St.  Cloud: 

"An  'innovation'  means  something  that  is  new.  But 
Primoli  and  Joachim  Murat  are  being  educated  at  a  French 
College,  and  did  not  the  late  King  send  his  sons  to  be 
boarders  at  the  Lycee  Henri  IV.  ?  Could  not  I  be  a  boarder 
at  the  Lycee  Napoleon,  or  the  Lycee  Bonaparte,  M.  le 
General?" 

With  labored  clearness  and  a  great  deal  of  circumlocu- 
tion, M.  le  General  explained: 

"The  heir  of  a  Democratic  Empire,  Monseigneur,  and 
the  sons  of  a  bourgeois  Royalty  cannot  be  regarded  upon 
the  same  level,  or  educated  upon  identical  principles.  But 
a  plan  has  been  devised  for  bringing  your  Imperial  High- 
ness into  actual  touch  with  the  life  of  a  public  school.  ..." 

' '  How  ?    Tell  me  quickly,  M.  le  General ! ' ' 

The  child's  delicate  face  flushed  bright  red.  His  eyes 
shone.  He  sat  upright  in  his  chair  as  though  a  vivifying 
breath  had  passed  through  him,  waiting  the  reply.  It 
came.  .  .  . 

"One  of  the  Professors  of  the  Elementary  Class  has 
been  engaged  to  take  your  Imperial  Highness  through  the 
course  prescribed  for  the  other  pupils.  He  will  attend 
daily  here,  or  at  the  Tuileries. ' ' 


142  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

The  child  said,  with  a  catching  of  the  breath  that  was 
almost  a  sob,  and  a  look  of  bitter  disappointment: 

"The  boys.  .  .  .  Then  I  shall  not  know  the  boys?" 

"No,  Monseigneur,  except  by  hearsay.  The  Professor 
will  tell  you  their  names,  ages,  and — ah ! — leading  charac- 
teristics. .  .  .  You  will  learn  with  them,  and  every  week 
you  will  write  a  composition  with  them,  recapitulating 
what  you  have  learned.  And  that  they  will  hear  of  you 
goes  without  saying.  Frequently,  Monseigneur,  but  fre- 
quently ! ' ' 

His  pupil  interrupted: 

"They  will  hear  of  me,  but  what  is  that?  They  will 
never  see  me — I  shall  never  see  them !  Never  join  in  their 
games — never  be  just  another  boy  with  them!  Never  be 

friends  or  foes  with  them — never  beat  them  or  be 

No !  I  should  not  like  to  be  beaten  at  all ! " 

M.  le  General  rejoined  solemnly : 

"That  degrading  possibility,  and  graver  dangers  still, 
will  be  averted  by  the  fact  that  their  Imperial  schoolfellow 
will  not  be — ah ! — bodily  present  in  their  midst,  my  Prince. 
Perhaps  your  Imperial  Highness  would  like  to  see  the 
Professor  now?" 

And  so  the  Professor  came,  and  from  him  the  boy  eagerly 
gleaned  information  about  his  little  schoolfellows  of  the 
Seventh  Form.  He  had  friends  of  his  own  who  came  to 
him  after  High  Mass  on  Sundays  and  on  all  holidays.  But 
except  Espinasse,  they  had  been  chosen  for  him.  The  joy 
of  selection  anjl  choice  he  was  not  to  know. 

Thus,  many  men  of  mark  from  different  Lycees  succeeded 
one  another  in  the  work-room  at  the  Chateau  and  succes- 
sively occupied  the  arm-chair  at  the  end  of  the  leather- 
covered  table  in  one  of  the  three  windows  of  his  corner 
study  on  the  third  story  of  the  Pavilion  de  Flore  at  the 
Tuileries — and  when  he  had  been  attentive  and  pleased  his 
Professor, — his  reward  would  be  to  hear  about  the  boys. 
.  .  .  Some  were  noble,  splendid  fellows,  full  of  cleverness, 
energy  and  spirits;  others  were  funny  by  reason  of  sheer 
stupidity,  or  some  quaint  characteristic  or  absurd  failing 
which  had  gained  them  nicknames  among  the  rest.  A  few 
were  spoken  of  almost  with  reverence,  as  being  dowered 
with  the  magical  gift  of  genius :  poets,  dramatists,  novelists, 
scientists  in  embryo,  budding  naval  or  military  command- 
ers, explorers  who  were  to  plant  the  Flag  of  France  in 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  143 

virgin  corners  of  the  earth  and  proudly  add  them  to  the 
Empire  that  would  one  day  be  his  own.  .  .  . 

He  met  his  longed-for  boys  at  last.  One  likes  to  picture 
him — having  once  taken  a  First  Place  in  the  Arithmetic 
Class — as  being  permitted  to  join  in  the  St.  Charlemagne 
fete  of  the  Lycee  Bonaparte.  He  sat  in  the  center  of  one 
of  the  long  tables,  with  long  vistas  of  boys,  boys,  boys 
opening  out  before  him  whichever  way  he  turned  his  head. 
And  he  was  happy,  but  for  this  thing;  that  though  most 
of  the  boys  in  whom  he  had  been  particularly  interested 
were  presented  to  him,  he  did  not  find — as  secretly  he 
hoped  to  find — the  friend  of  whom  he  dreamed.  .  .  . 

He  tried  to  be  ~bon  camarade;  to  combine — and  he  had 
a  special  gift  in  this — easy  good-fellowship  with  gracious- 
ness.  But  the  boys  did  not  respond  as  he  would  have 
liked.  They  stood  to  attention,  and  looked  him  in  the 
face,  and  answered,  "Yes,  Monseigneur !  No,  Monseig- 
neur ! ' '  boldly,  or  they  shuffled  and  blinked,  and  answered, 
"No,  Monseigneur!  Yes,  Monseigneur!"  mumblingly,  and 
that  was  all. 

He  wished,  secretly  yet  ardently,  for  brave,  proud  eyes 
to  meet  his  own,  and  strike  out  the  sacred  spark  of  chaste 
and  mutual  fire  that  kindles  the  pure,  undying  flame  of 
Friendship 's  altar.  He  longed  for  a  grave,  melodious  voice 
to  match  the  noble,  youthful  face  and  the  fine  form  of  his 
chosen  friend.  He  sought  a  nature  to  lean  upon,  which 
should  be  stronger,  greater,  than  his  own.  .  .  .  Superior 
talents,  greater  capacities,  ambitions  to  share,  successes 
to  emulate.  And  he  found  none.  Not  a  boy  here  was  a 
patch  upon  the  shoe  of  gay,  gallant,  lovable,  merry  Espi- 
nasse,  who  had  never  come  up  to  his  Prince's  notion  of  a 
bosom-friend.  Could  it  be  that  the  other  self  did  not  exist 
anywhere?  We  turned  from  that  thought,  we  who  were 
lonely  when  we  were  young.  It  made  the  world  feel  so 
big  and  cold. 

The  Fete  of  St.  Charlemagne  having  passed  off  without 
any  untoward  incident  or  disagreeable  demonstration,  an 
unhappy  inspiration  on  the  part  of  M.  Victor  Duruy 
prompted  the  suggestion  that  the  Emperor's  heir  should 
preside  at  the  distribution  of  prizes  for  the  Concours  Gen- 
eral, and  thus  be  for  the  second  time  brought  into  sym- 
pathetic touch  with  the  intellectual  youth  of  France. 


144  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

You  are  to  imagine  the  picture  of  the  stately  entry  into 
the  great  Hall  upon  the  first-floor  of  the  Sorbonne  upon 
an  evening  in  mid- August;  the  reception  by  the  Minister 
of  Public  Instruction,  gowned  and  capped  and  hooded, 
and  the  Representatives  of  the  Faculties;  the  ominously 
restricted  and  frigid  applause  of  professors  and  students, 
greeting  references  made  in  the  Rector's  Latin  speech  to 
the  presence  of  an  Imperial  Prince  in  the  classic  groves 
of  Akademos. 

Hostility,  hidden  behind  a  mask  of  frigid  indifference, 
was  to  dash  down  the  brittle  sham,  and  show  the  fierce 
eyes  of  scorn  and  the  livid  hue  of  hatred,  and  the  writhed 
lips  dumb  with  reproaches  unutterable.  Contempt  and 
mockery  were  to  be  conveyed  in  the  small  sibilant  s'ss! 
that  rippled  from  parterre  to  gallery,  and  by  the  intoler- 
able jeering  titter  that  replied. 

Yet  all  might  have  passed  off  tolerably  but  for  the  beldam 
Fate,  who  had  arranged  that  the  second  prize  for  Greek 
translation,  a  trio  of  calf-bound,  gilt-backed  volumes  con- 
taining the  Works  of  Thucydides,  had — together  with  a 
laurel  crown — fallen  to  Louis-Eugene  Cavaignac. 

The  young  voice  had  not  faltered  in  reading  the  name 
upon  the  illuminated  scroll.  What  did  its  owner  know 
of  the  Revolutionary  soldier,  the  dauntless  foe  of  Abd-el- 
Kader?  The  Governor-General  of  Algeria  who  had  been 
recalled  to  Paris  to  assume  the  functions  of  Minister  at 
War  to  the  Republican  Government  of  1848.  The  man 
who  had  upheld  the  office  of  Dictator  during  the  period  of 
terror  that  had  followed  the  fatal  days  of  June !  The  can- 
didate for  the  Presidency  of  the  Republic  who  had  scorned 
to  bribe;  who  had  calmly  accepted  his  defeat,  and  taken 
his  place  in  the  National  Assembly,  when  Charles  Louis 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  the  good  citizen,  was  elected  to  the 
arm-chair  upon  the  tribune,  and  took  the  oath  of  fidelity 
to  the  Republic  of  France.  Who  had  been  imprisoned  in 
the  Fortress  of  Ham,  with  other  Representatives  of  the 
Left, — his  gaoler  a  commandant  named  Baudot,  whom  he 
himself  had  appointed  in  '48, — his  guards  the  40th  Regi- 
ment of  the  Line,  which  had  been  subject  to  his  orders  so 
short  a  time  before. 

Of  his  seven  fellow-captives  between  those  grim  and 
oozing  walls,  one  was  paralyzed  upon  release,  others  were 
victims  to  chronic  rheumatism.  Cavaignac  had  lived  in 


retirement  until  the  elections  of  June,  1857,  when  he  was 
chosen  as  one  of  the  Deputies  for  the  Seine,  in  opposition 
to  an  Imperialist  candidate.  A  few  weeks  later  he  had 
died  suddenly,  leaving  a  wife  and  a  son  three  years  old. 

This  son,  who  had  half-risen  from  his  place  upon  the 
bench  at  the  sound  of  the  voice  that  called  upon  him  in  the 
name  that  had  been  his  father's,  had  all  these  memories 
in  his  flaming  eyes.  He  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  applause 
that  greeted  his  triumph;  he  gazed  steadily  into  the  face 
of  the  young  Bonaparte,  and  then  looked  toward  his 
mother.  And  Madame  Cavaignac,  seated,  beautiful  and 
stern  as  a  matron  of  old  Rome,  relentless  as  Fate,  in  the 
front  of  the  gallery  opposite,  signed  to  him  with  an  im- 
perious gesture  to  sit  down.  He  obeyed  her.  And  then 
round  upon  round  of  deafening  plaudits  made  the  walls 
and  rafters  of  the  ancient  building  shake;  and  brought 
the  gray  dust  of  six  centuries  drifting  down  upon  the  black 
or  brown  or  golden  locks  of  the  hopeful  youth  of  France. 

After  that  episode  the  heir  of  the  Imperial  dignities  was 
not  again  brought  in  contact  with  the  students  of  the 
lyceums.  He  made  no  reference  to  the  prize-winner  who 
had  refused  the  prize  tendered  by  the  son  of  his  dead 
father's  relentless  enemy.  But  the  insult  had  gone  to  the 
quick.  Recalling  it,  he  would  clench  his  hands  until  the 
nails  dug  deep  into  the  delicate  flesh,  crying  inwardly: 

' '  Oh !  to  be  a  man  full-grown,  and  avenge  that  day  with 
blood!" 

At  other  times  he  would  weep  passionately  in  secret  over 
the  memory  of  the  outrage ;  for,  being  of  a  sensitive,  affec- 
tionate and  generous  nature,  it  sorely  hurt  to  find  him- 
self the  object  of  such  hatred  from  one  in  whom, — it  seemed 
to  him,  and  perhaps  indeed  it  wTas  so! — he  might  have 
found  the  bosom-friend  and  alter  ego,  so  keenly  longed  for 
and  so  eagerly  sought. 

The  bright  dark  eyes  and  clear-cut  features,  the  well-set 
head  and  athletic  form,  the  dignified,  yet  modest  bearing 
of  this  boy,  so  superior  to  himself  in  everything  but  wealth 
and  station,  fitted  the  niche  previously  prepared.  And 
when  he  fell  to  dreaming,  young  Cavaignac 's  resolute  face 
and  calm,  contemptuous  bearing  were  invariably  opposed 
to  his  own  unslumbering  resentment,  and  finally-conquer- 
ing generosity.  For,  varied  as  the  plot  might  be,  the 


146  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

denouement  of  each  little  drama  would  always  be  the 
same. 

They  would  meet,  in  manhood,  upon  some  field  of  bloody 
battle,  during  the  great  war  beginning  with  the  French 
invasion  of  the  Grand  Duchy  of  Luxembourg,  ending  with 
the  conquest  of  Germany  and  the  annexation  of  the  left 
bank  of  the  Rhine.  A  youth  upon  the  verge  of  manhood, 
the  dreamer  would  have  performed  such  prodigies  of  valor 
in  command  of  his  regiment  as  to  justify  his  appointment 
as  Comrnander-in-Chief  of  the  Imperial  Army  of  Invasion. 
He  had  not  decided  what  would  happen.  There  would 
be  a  great  charge  of  cavalry  led  against  overwhelming  odds, 
under  a  deadly  fire  of  infantry  and  artillery,  by  himself. 
He  would  cut  down  or  shoot  a  gigantic  Prussian  trooper, 
who  had  wounded  a  French  officer.  He  would  lightly  leap 
from  his  own  charger — the  Arab  " Selim"  given  him  by 
Sultan  Abdul  Aziz — and  aid  the  prostrate  man  to  rise  and 
mount.  Their  looks  would  meet,  the  blue-gray  and  the 
fiery  black  eyes  would  strike  out  a  spark  of  mutual  recog- 
nition. Oh!  the  joy  of  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  that 
beautiful,  rebellious  head ! 

Or  Cavaignac  would  not  then  recognize  his  saviour,  but 
long  afterward,  the  Prince  having  become  Emperor,  would 
head  a  conspiracy  to  dethrone  him.  Moving,  as  would 
be  the  wont  of  the  Fourth  Napoleon,  in  disguise  through 
the  public  places  of  his  capital,  mingling  with  every  rank 
and  class,  a  mystery  to  men,  an  enigma  to  women,  wor- 
shiped by  all,  known  by  none;  he  would  have  discovered 
the  plot  and  laid  a  counter-plot,  which,  of  course,  would 
be  successful.  The  mine  would  explode  harmlessly — the 
conspirators  would  be  seized.  Their  leader, — lying  under 
sentence  of  death  in  a  military  fortress — probably  Mont 
Valerien — bedded  upon  damp  straw,  loaded  with  massive 
fetters,  would  be  visited  by  a  young  officer.  He  would 
recall  the  features  of  his  deliverer  of  long  ago,  and  fall 
upon  his  neck,  crying:  "Alas!  my  noble  friend,  long 
sought,  unfound  till  now,  thou  comest  late,  but  in  time,  for 
I  am  to  die  to-morrow!"  "Die!  Is  it  possible!  Of  what 
art  thou  guilty,  then?"  Cavaignac  would  answer  coldly: 
"Of  having  conspired  to  dethrone  the  young  Emperor!" 
"Dost  thou  indeed  hate  him  so?"  "Ay!  we  have  been 
enemies  since  boyhood's  days."  Choking  with  emotion,  dis- 
sembled under  a  pale  and  resolute  exterior,  the  visitor 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  147 

would  return:  "And  he  hates  thee  not!  Were  he  here 
lie  would  say  as  much  to  thee!"  "Can  it  be  possible? 

How,  then ? "  "I  swear  it  upon  the  soul  of  my  father ! 

Thy  Emperor  is  thy  truest  friend !  Here  is  my  sword. 
Behold  this  undefended  breast,  cage  of  a  heart  that  has 
ever  loved  thee !  Thrust,  I  command  thee,  if  thou  hast  the 
power!"  "Sire,  I  am  conquered;  I  have  lived  for  a  Re- 
public— I  die  the  Emperor's  most  loyal  subject!"  "To 
my  arms,  then,  Cavaignac!  Embrace  me — thou  art  for- 
given ! ' ' 

Impossible,  beautiful  dreams,  grandiose  and  absurd, 
ridiculous  and  touching.  .  .  . 

He  was  mentally  carrying  on  one  of  these  endless  duo- 
logues as  he  rode  through  the  wintry  avenues  of  the  Bois, 
and  dismounted  at  my  Lord  Hertford's  exquisite  villa  of 
Bagatelle,  set  in  beautiful,  secluded  grounds  adjoining  the 
park. 

Born  of  a  whim  of  the  Comte  d'Artois,  gay  Monsieur, 
brother  of  the  Sixteenth  Louis,  built  in  fifty-four  days  by 
the  architect  Bellanger,  at  a  cost  of  six  hundred  thousand 
livres,  Bagatelle  had  always  served  as  a  shelter  for  gallant 
adventures,  not  all  of  them  set  in  what  Republicans  scorn- 
fully termed  ' '  the  night  of  monarchy. ' ' 

Mademoiselle  de  Charolais,  beautiful  and  haughty; 
Mademoiselle  de  Beauharnais,  handsome,  sensual,  and  un- 
scrupulous; Madame  Tallien,  constant,  noble,  and  courage- 
ous; the  Duchesse  de  Berri,  and  how  many  other  women, 
famous  or  infamous,  had  trodden  its  velvet  lawns  and 
swept  over  its  floors  of  rare  marquetry  or  its  pavements 
of  mosaic  ?  The  blood  of  the  Beauharnais  mingled  in  this 
boy's  own  veins,  with  the  Corsican  and  Spanish  tides  and 
the  dash  of  canny  Scots  derived  from  distant  Kirkpatricks. 
That  Celtic  strain  was  responsible,  it  may  be,  for  his 
•dreaminess  and  love  of  solitude. 

He  was  dreaming  as  he  rode  through  the  forest;  the 
spell  of  his  dream  was  still  upon  him  as  he  turned  his 
Arab  in  at  the  gilded  gates  of  Bagatelle,  and  dismounted 
before  its  portico,  in  the  shadow  of  the  Gothic  tower. 

From  childhood  many  of  the  happiest  hours  of  this  son 
of  the  Empire  had  been  spent  at  Bagatelle.  In  its  laby- 
rinths of  myrtle  and  oleander,  laurel  and  syringa,  he  had 
liidden,  bursting  with  childish  laughter,  when  his  play- 
mates were  seeking  him;  he  had  galloped  his  Shetland 


148  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

pony  and  raced  with  his  dogs  over  its  green  lawns.  Upon 
its  broad  sheets  of  crystal  water  he  had  sailed  his  miniature 
yacht-squadrons.  At  his  entreaty,  the  Emperor,  always 
an  indulgent  father,  had  endeavored  to  buy  the  place  from 
its  English  owner.  In  vain!  my  lord  of  Hertford  was 
not  to  be  tempted  by  gold,  possessing  so  much  of  the  stuff, 
or  allured  by  rank,  who  Was  a  premier  English  Marquess, 
Knight  of  the  Garter,  and  so  forth.  Yet  he  was  a  generous 
nobleman,  and  made  the  Imperial  urchin  free  of  his  coveted 
fairyland  whenever  he,  the  owner  of  the  place,  should  be 
from  home. 

To-day's  dream,  for  a  wonder,  was  not  the  usual  duo- 
logue between  the  friend  and  the  unfriend.  Albeit  inno- 
cently, it  was  tinged  by  sex,  it  assumed  the  shape  of  the 
triangle ;  and  worked  out,  though,  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
dreamer,  the  eternal  Rule  of  Three.  Louis  and  his  dear 
enemy,  men  grown,  madly  loved  one  woman;  a  bewitching 
creature,  with  a  sparkling  rose-flushed  face,  eyes  like  blue 
jewels  under  a  pile  of  black  hair,  crowned  with  a  little 
cap  of  velvet  and  gray  fur,  with  a  blue  wing  set  at  the  side. 
She  adored  the  Prince  who  had  won  her  love  in  the  dis- 
guise of  a  simple  officer.  Fortified  by  this  passion,  she 
could  hear  Cavaignac  plead  unmoved.  He,  driven  to 
frenzy  by  jealousy,  would  conceal  himself  here,  for  the 
Imperial  lover  would  have  settled  Bagatelle  with  all  its 
treasures  upon  his  lady-love! — and  at  midnight  when  a 
step  echoed  in  the  gallery  of  arms,  and  the  fair  one,  re- 
clining upon  this  very  fauteuil  in  the  window  command- 
ing the  grass-plot  centered  by  the  Cellini  fountain, — sprang 
up  with  a  cry  of  joy  to  welcome  her  lover, — the  rejected 
aspirant  would  leap  from  behind  yonder  trophy  of  six- 
teenth-century pageant-shields,  topped  with  the  magnifi- 
cent embossed  and  damascened  one  bearing  the  monogram 
and  insignia  of  Diane  de  Poitiers;  and,  seizing  yonder 
rapier  from  its  stand,  would  challenge  his  successful  rival 
there  and  then,  to  a  duel  a  entrance. 

Need  it  be  said  that  the  Prince's  well-known  mastery  of 
the  sword  would  enable  him, — by  a  lightning  coup,  follow- 
ing a  feint — to  disarm  his  antagonist ;  upon  whom  he 
would  finally  bestow  not  only  the  lady,  but  the  villa,  with 
its  treasures  of  paintings  by  ancient  and  modern  masters, 
its  marvelous  miniatures  and  enamels,  its  rooms  of  porce- 
lain, cabinets  of  priceless  coins  and  gems,  galleries  of  an- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

tique  sculpture,  its  costly  furniture,  its  matchless  grounds 
and  gardens,  ending  a  great  many  nobly  turned  sentences 
with  the  dignified  peroration : 

"Take   her,   Cavaignac,   with  all  these   riches!     I   ask 
nothing  in  return,  but  your  esteem!" 


XX 

COULD  Juliette  have  known  how  she  had  been  disposed 
of  in  a  boy's  imagination,  perhaps  the  Spanish  Infanta 
would  have  replaced  the  rosy  nymph.  But  while  her 
Prince  dreamed,  her  jingling  vehicle  had  crossed  the  Port 
de  St.  Cloud,  and  so  by  Ville  d'Avray  up  the  long  avenue 
between  the  breasting  woods,  stately  and  glorious  still, 
though  stripped  by  the  blasts  of  January,  to  the  clean 
white  town  that  had  sprung  up,  nearly  three  hundred 
years  before  (upon  the  site  of  a  little  village  patronized 
by  wagoners),  where  an  ancient  feudal  castle  stood  on  a 
plateau  surrounded  by  lake,  forest,  and  marsh. 

A  touch  of  a  King's  scepter  changed  this  ancient  castle 
to  a  Royal  Hunting-Lodge,  a  whim  of  his  successor  trans- 
formed the  humbler  dwelling  to  a  Palace.  Courtiers,  offi- 
cials, functionaries,  guards,  valets,  lackeys,  pimps,  cooks, 
barbers  and  innumerable  hangers-on  are  necessary  to  the 
upkeep  of  State ;  and  these  must  be  housed  in  stately  fash- 
ion. Behold  whole  streets  of  buildings,  with  noble  avenues, 
radiating  like  the  sticks  of  a  fan  from  the  sunlike  center, 
uprising  like  fungi  from  the  swampy  soil.  Behold,  as  the 
power  and  glory  of  the  monarch  redoubled, — no  less  than 
thirty  thousand  workmen  engaged  in  enlarging  and  beauti- 
fying the  residence  of  His  Majesty,  while  a  regiment  of 
Swiss  Guards  dig  out  the  lake.  And  when  pneumonia, 
fever,  and  ague  carry  off  so  many  thousands  of  these  hap- 
less toilers  that  the  dead  have  to  be  carted  away  by  night, 
and  secretly  dumped  into  pits  dug  for  the  purpose,  and  the 
bottoms  of  the  Royal  coffers  are  seen  through  a  thinning 
layer  of  gold,  and  the  Building  Accounts  of  the  Crown 
Demesne  show  totals  of  unpaid  debts  sufficiently  colossal 
to  stagger  a  lightning-calculator,  and  Ministers  grow  dizzy, 
seeing  a  Kingdom  on  the  brink  of  financial  ruin,  the 
sublime  forehead  beneath  the  bediamonded  hat  and  the 


150  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

towering  wig  is  illuminated  by  an  inspiration.  ' '  Ha !  We 
have  it!  Quick!  commence  new  works!  Pile  on  the  na- 
tional taxes,  press  a  million  unpaid  laborers  into  the  Royal 
service.  Let  rivers  of  tears  flow  to  swell  the  sources  of  our 
dwindling  fountains.  Upon  the  uncounted  corpses  of  vul- 
gar toilers  erect  fresh  monuments  to  all  the  glories  of 
France!" 

No  ghastly  visions  disturbed  the  royal  dreams,  no  awful 
Finger  wrote  the  dreadful  sentence  upon  the  marble 
friezes  of  his  banqueting-halls.  The  shadow  of  the  little 
cocked  hat  that  was  to  overtop  his  tallest  wig  by  the  whole 
height  of  a  Crown  Imperial  was  never  shown  him.  in  Witch 
Montespan's  magic  mirror.  The  bees  that  were  to  swarm 
over  his  lilies  and  drain  their  golden  honey  were  not  to  be 
hatched  for  many  years  yet.  He  deemed  himself  im- 
mortal in  spite  of  the  twinges  of  the  gout,  until  it  took 
him  in  the  stomach  and  carried  him  off,  at  seventy-seven, 
leaving  France  to  shudder  in  the  embraces  of  a  far  worse 
man  than  himself.  Until,  aphrodisiacs  and  apoplexy  hav- 
ing made  an  end  of  the  infamous  Regent,  and  Louis  the 
Well-Beloved  having  succumbed  to  vice  and  smallpox,  and 
the  Red  Widow  having  hugged  the  heads  off  Louis  the 
Locksmith  and  his  fair  young  Queen,  the  Terror  ushered 
in  the  Revolution,  Era  of  Liberty,  Equality,  and  Universal 
Phlebotomy;  until  men,  wearied  of  serving  many  masters, 
looked  about  for  one  to  lead  them,  and  the  Little  Corporal 
with  the  pale  hatchet-face  and  the  inscrutable  gray-blue 
eyes  under  the  great  marble  forehead  rose  up  and  said, 
"Here  am  I!" 

The  Court  of  his  nephew  was  just  now  at  the  Tuileries. 
You  saw  the  town  of  Versailles  in  its  winter  slumber,  un- 
disturbed by  the  roll  of  innumerable  carriages,  luggage 
fourgons,  pastrycooks'  and  tradesmen's  vans,  and  other 
vehicles,  over  its  historic  and  venerable  cobblestones.  .  .  . 
Fashionable  people  lived  there  all  the  year  round;  many 
of  the  crack  regiments  of  the  Imperial  Guard  were  quar- 
tered in  the  innumerable  barracks;  there  was  no  lack  of 
society — not  the  cream  of  the  cream,  perhaps,  but  charm- 
ing, lively  and  gay. 

The  777th  Mounted  Chasseurs  of  the  Imperial  Guard 
were  garrisoned  in  that  antique  quarter  of  barracks  and 
churches,  convents  and  Royal  harems,  once  known  as  the 
Pare  aux  Cerfs.  South  of  the  great  central  avenue  leading 


THE    MAN   OF    IRON  151 

from  the  Place  d'Armes  to  Paris,  you  found  its  huge 
monumental  entrance  on  the  right  of  the  Eue  de  1'Oran- 
gerie,  once  the  Hotel  of  the  Gardes  du  Corps  du  Roi.  It 
boasted  a  frontage  at  once  chaste  and  imposing.  The  high 
window  of  the  mess-room,  balconied  and  dominated  by  a 
lofty  pediment,  surmounted  the  great  gates  of  wrought- 
iron  rolling  back  upon  a  wide  sanded  courtyard.  If  I  do 
not  err,  the  quarters  of  M.  le  Colonel  were  upon  the  second- 
floor  upon  the  left-hand  side  of  the  gate,  immediately  above 
a  confectioner's,  whence  rose  delicious  odors  of  baking 
pastry  and  simmering  chocolate  to  titillate  the  nostrils  of 
Mademoiselle.  The  sleeping-chamber  and  boudoir,  de- 
scribed in  the  Colonel's  letter  as  hung  with  rosebud  chintz, 
and  elegantly  furnished;  the  little  kitchen  on  the  same 
floor,  full  of  pots  and  bright  pans,  scoured  by  the  Colonel's 
soldier-servant  into  dazzling  brilliancy,  more  than  fulfilled 
the  expectations  provoked  beforehand.  I.  rather  think 
that  the  dinner — an  inexpensive  and  savory  little  meal, 
consisting  of  vegetable  soup  with  fillets  of  sole  Normande, 
an  infinitesimal  steak  jardiniere)  an  omelette  soufflee,  Brie 
cheese  (nowhere  upon  earth  does  one  get  such  Brie  as  at 
Versailles),  and  dessert — had  come  from  the  pastrycook's 
on  the  street-floor.  After  the  cooking  one  got  at  the  Con- 
vent and  in  default  of  the  much  better  dinner  Made- 
moiselle could  have  evolved  out  of  similar  materials,  it 
was  a  meal  for  demi-gods.  And  you  do  not  know  Juliette 
if  you  imagine  she  did  not  dispose  of  her  share. 

"I  am  gourmande,  me,"  she  would  assure  her  confi- 
dantes in  all  sincerity,  fitting  the  tip  of  a  slender  finger 
into  a  dint  that  would  have  needed  slight  persuasion  to 
become  a  dimple.  "I  love  good  dishes,  or  how  should  I 
be  able  to  cook  them?  One  of  these  days  it  is  possible 
that  I  may  even  grow  fat.  Believe  me,  I  am  not  joking. 
Already  I  perceive  the  beginning  of  a  double  chin!" 

M.  le  Colonel  had  excused  himself  from  attendance  at 
Mess  that  he  might  dine  with  his  daughter.  Both  Monsieur 
and  Mademoiselle  were  prodigiously  gay,  you  may  conceive. 
But  even  while  Juliette  laughed  and  clapped  her  little 
hands  in  delight  at  the  paternal  witticisms,  while  she  leaned 
upon  her  Colonel's  shoulder,  or  sat  upon  the  arm  of  his 
chair;  while  her  slender  arm  twined  round  his  neck,  and 
her  cheek,  no  longer  ivory-pale,  but  painted  by  the  delicate 
brush  of  the  artist  Joy  with  the  loveliest  rose-flush,  was 


152  THE    MAN   OF,   IRON 

tickled  by  the  waxed  end  of  his  martial  mustachio,  the 
hateful  shadow  of  the  faceless  Charles  rose  up  and  thrust 
itself  between.  It  blotted  out  the  last  rays  of  the  red 
wintry  sun,  it  sprawled  across  the  shade  of  the  Argand 
lamp.  It  was  heavy  though  impalpable,  and  diffused  a 
numbing  chill  throughout  the  little  apartment. 

Perhaps  the  father  felt  it,  for  as  they  sat  together 
talking  by  the  cheerful  fire  of  crackling  beech-billets  that 
burned  upon  the  open  hearth,  he  gradually  fell  silent. 

You  can  see  him  in  his  undress  uniform  jacket  of  green 
cloth,  braided,  frogged,  and  with  fur  edging,  unhooked  at 
the  neck  and  showing  the  white  shirt,  stiff  linen  collar,  and 
scarlet  tie.  His  polished  boots  and  bright  spurs,  buttons, 
buckles,  and  so  forth,  reflected  the  dancing  firelight.  His 
forage-cap,  a  head-dress  gaudy  and  bizarre  enough  to  have 
come  out  of  a  Christmas  cracker,  crowned  a  porcelain 
bust  of  a  young  negress,  chocolate-hued,  with  purplish- 
crimson  lips,  pink  protruding  tongue,  and  rolling  onyx 
eyes  (an  art-object  left  behind  as  too  fragile  for  transport 
by  the  previous  occupant  of  the  quarters) — while  his  long 
saber  leaned  against  her  wooden  pedestal. 

His  handsome  face  was  very  grave,  almost  somber,  as 
he  pulled  his  crisp  imperial,  and  stared  at  the  little  dancing 
hearth-flames,  forgetful  of  the  excellent  cigar  burning  itself 
away  to  ash  between  the  first  and  second  fingers  of  his 
well-kept  right  hand.  The  other  hand  sometimes  rested 
on  his  knee,  sometimes  touched  his  daughter's  hair;  for 
Juliette  had  slipped  from  her  previous  seat  to  the  carpet, 
where  she  sat  leaning  against  him. 

And  all  at  once  the  chill  barrier  of  reserve  broke  down. 
It  was  when  a  heavy  tear  splashed  upon  the  hand  that 
rested  on  the  knee  of  the  crimson  overall,  a  strong,  brown, 
manly  hand,  rather  hairy  on  the  back.  It  clenched  as 
though  the  single  drop  had  been  of  molten  metal,  and 
then  Juliette  caught  it  in  both  her  own  and  spoke : 

"Oh,  my  father,  why  must  this  marriage  take  place? 
We  have  not  said  one  word,  but  I  know  well  that  what  is 
in  my  mind  is  in  yours  also.  Feel!" — she  drew  the  pris- 
oned hand  closely  to  her — ' '  here  lies  your  letter  over  where 
my  heart  is  beating  so.  Much  of  it  I  comprehend,  but  the 
rest  is  anguish — mystery!  War  is  threatened — that  at 
least  is  clear.  The  regiment  will  sooner  or  later  be  ordered 
on  active  service.  And — were  your  daughter  the  wife  of 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  153 

a  gentleman  of  her  father's  profession,  you  fear  that  she 
might  suffer  as  her  grandmother — as  her  own  beloved  dead 
mother  did.  But  though  my  grandmother  lost  her  hus- 
band, War  spared  her  son.  You  returned  to  her  and  to  my 
mother,  not  even  wounded,  darling!  And  if  you  appre- 
hend for  me  a  lot  less  fortunate,  why  need  I  marry  any 
one?  Take  me  with  you  or  leave  me  behind,  I  am  your 
obedient  daughter  always — always !  But  I  had  rather  you 
would  take  me,  dear!" 

Not  trusting  himself  to  speak,  the  father  took  the  little 
head  between  his  palms  and  kissed  the  blue-veined  temples 
and  the  clear  space  between  the  wide-arched  eyebrows. 
The  candid  eyes  met  his,  that  were  cloudy  and  troubled. 
He  searched  for  phrases  to  disguise  a  truth  that  must  stab. 

"If  I  met  death  upon  the  field,  you  by  my  side,  you 
would  be  left  alone  and  unprotected.  "Were  I  to  leave  you 
behind  even  in  the  care  of  Madame  Tessier,  you  would 
none  the  less  be  alone.  There  is  safety  in  permanent  ties; 
but  only  when  her  husband  is  by  her  side  does  the  sacra- 
ment of  marriage  open  a  haven  to  a  young  girl  where  the 
libertine  and  the  seducer  dare  not  enter.  I  speak  with 
certainty — only  when  her  husband  is  by  her  side ! ' ' 

So  women  were  not  to  be  trusted!  .  .  .  His  palms 
might  have  been  burned  had  he  not  withdrawn  them,  so 
fiery  the  sudden  blush  that  rose  in  the  clear,  pale  cheeks. 

Barely  comprehending  his  meaning,  she  faltered : 

"Yet  my  grandmother ' 

The  Colonel  broke  in  hastily : 

"My  mother  was  a  Saint!  What  I  have  said  does  not 
apply  to  her ! ' ' 

"And  my  mother?" 

Something  like  a  groan  broke  from  the  man.  She  felt 
him  wince  and  shudder  as  she  leaned  upon  him,  saw  the 
strong  square  teeth  of  the  upper- jaw  nip  the  ruddy  lower 
lip,  noted  the  ashen  grayness  that  replaced  the  ebbed 
color,  and  the  points  of  moisture  that  broke  out  upon  his 
temples  where  his  rich  black  hair  was  frosted  with  white. 
And  looking,  she  bleached  and  shuddered  in  sympathy. 
His  haunted  eyes  and  haggard  face  bent  over  an  .upturned 
white  mask,  that  had  little  of  the  grace  of  girlhood  left  in 
it.  The  distended  pupils  encroached  upon  the  blue  until 
her  eyes  seemed  inky-black.  He  would  have  withdrawn 
the  hand  she  held  in  both  hers,  but  the  soft  little  fingers 


154  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

turned  to  living  steel,  and  he  could  not  free  himself.  And 
the  blue-black  eyes  staring  out  of  the  pinched  elfin  face 
quested  in  search  of  something  that  his  own  eyes  strove  to 
hide.  As  though  his  had  been  the  weaker  nature  and 
hers  the  stronger  (impossible,  the  creature  being  feminine), 
he  felt  his  loathed  secret  being  relentlessly  drawn  to  light. 
The  clear,  unshaken  question: 

' '  Was  not  my  mother  good  ? ' '  compelled  him  to  truthful 
utterance.  He  heard  a  voice  unlike  his  own  replying : 

"At  the  beginning — yes!  I  would  stake  my  soul  upon 
it.  But  during  the  war  in  the  Crimea,  when  the  Allies 
watered  with  the  best  blood  of  France  and  England  that 
fatal  soil,  her  loyalty  to  the  absent  husband  weakened— 
her  heart  strayed ! ' '  He  struck  himself  upon  the  breast 
passionately.  "Yet  here  beat  a  heart  that  would  have 
throbbed  for  love  in  death,  had  her  lips  kissed  the  shape 
of  icy  clay  that  housed  it.  It  burns  now  with  shame  that 
I  must  strip  off  the  veil  of  secrecy  that  until  this  moment 
has  hidden  from  thee  thy  mother 's  sin ! ' ' 

The  head  bent,  a  swift  kiss  touched  his  hand.  Her 
mouth  felt  very  cold.  He  went  on,  realizing  that  she 
demanded  it: 

"She  fled  with  her  lover  upon  the  very  day  of  the  re- 
entry of  the  Army  into  Paris.  After  the  triumph  I  has- 
tened to  Auteuil,  where  she  and  her  child  were  living  with 
my  mother.  That  sainted  soul  met  me  at  the  door — the 
first  glimpse  of  her  face  told  the  terrible  intelligence. 
Had  other  lips  than  those  beloved  ones  stabbed  me  with 
the  truth,  that  night  my  revolver  would  have  ended  it ! — I 
would  not  have  lived  to  endure  the  pity  in  the  faces  of  the 
friends  who  loved  me — the  curiosity  in  strangers'  eyes." 

A  deep  sigh  stirred  her,  quickening  in  him  the  knowl- 
edge that  since  she  had  kissed  his  hand  she  had  listened 
without  breathing.  She  murmured  now : 

"Poor,  dearest,  best  father!  How  old  was  I  when 
she " 

He  said  tenderly: 

"Let  me  see  ...  it  was  the  August  of  1856;  thou 
hadst  five  years,  and  thy  curls  were  as  soft  and  as  yellow 
as  chicken-down.  Thy  mother  used  to  say,  Juliette  will 
never  be  black  like  me!" 

That  disloyal  mother  had  been  the  darkest  of  brunettes, 
ivory-skinned,  and  ebon-haired,  with  eyes  of  tawny  wine- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  155 

color,  and  the  tall,  lithe,  exuberant  form  of  a  goddess  of 
Grecian  myth.  To  question  the  man  she  had  deserted 
with  regard  to  his  betrayer  seemed  hideous,  and  yet  .  .  . 
Juliette  strung  herself  to  the  effort,  faltering : 

''And  for  whom  .  .  .  ?  with  whom  .  .  .  ?  Do  not  tell 
me  if  it  costs  thee  too  much ! ' ' 

His  comprehension  was  instant.  Very  coldly  the  answer 
came: 

"He  was  a  personage  of  rank  in  his  own  country.  A 
military  attache  of  the  Prussian  Embassy  in  Paris.  They 
had  met  at  one  of  the  Imperial  receptions  at  the  Tuileries." 

"Is  he  alive?" 

The  whispered  words  might  have  been  shrieked  in  his 
ear,  such  a  leap  of  the  heart  and  such  a  thrilling  of  the 
nerves  responded.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  said  sternly, 
not  looking  at  his  daughter,  but  directly  at  the  wall  before 
him: 

' '  The  man  is  dead !  But  he  did  not  fall  in  a  duel.  He 
lived  to  meet  his  end  during  the  Prusso- Austrian  War. 
He  had  left  Paris  en  route  for  Berlin  when  my  representa- 
tive called  at  the  Prussian  Embassy.  Strive  as  I  would, 
I  could  gain  no  answer  from  him.  Nor  might  the  utmost 
influence  I  could  command  obtain  a  response  to  my  cartel. 
This  being  so,  the  disgrace  is  his — not  mine ! ' ' 

He  grew  quite  tall  in  saying  this,  so  dignified  was  the 
little  tubby  man,  so  noble  in  his  soldierly  simplicity.  His 
daughter  looked  up  at  him,  wondering  at  him,  loving  him, 
sorrowing  over  him;  yet  yearning  to  hear  more  of  that 
beloved,  faithless  one  who  had  dealt  those  bleeding  wounds 
he  now  bared  in  the  sight  of  the  child  she  had  deserted, 
and  plowed  such  deep  lines  in  his  wrung  and  suffering 
face.  The  words  would  break  out,  though  she  nipped  her 
lips  to  stop  them : 

"And  my  mother  .  .  .  did  she  repent  and  ask  your 
pardon  ?  Did  you  not  forgive  her  before  she  died  ? ' ' 

"She  did  not  die!" 

The  little  Colonel  had  a  great  voice.  His  "Garde  d 
vous!"  roared  down  the  files  like  a  spherical  mortar-shell, 
his  "Chargez!"  might  have  set  dead  men  and  horses  up 
and  galloping.  Indeed,  his  nickname  among  the  troopers 
of  his  regiment  was,  I  believe,  nothing  less  than  "Bouche 
d  feu!"  When  he  thundered  the  answer  to  Juliette's  ques- 
tion, not  only  did  Mademoiselle  Bayard  leap  to  her  feet, 


156  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

vibrating  in  every  fiber  of  her  slender,  rigid  body,  but  the 
crystal  drops  of  the  mantelshelf  chandeliers  left  by  the 
previous  tenant  danced  and  tinkled,  and  the  panes  of  the 
windows  rattled  in  their  frames.  What  more  the  Colonel 
might  have  said  was  drowned,  as  the  customary  fanfare  of 
trumpets  sounded  from  the  Mess,  heralding  the  loyal  toast. 
Then  the  "Vive  1'Empereur!"  rang  out,  and  the  regi- 
mental band  crashed  into  "Partant  Pour  La  Syrie,"  and 
very  soon  afterward,  from  the  uncurtained  window  com- 
manding the  barrack-square,  lights  could  be  seen  moving 
across  the  shadowy  space  as  the  dispersing  officers  returned 
to  their  quarters  or  went  about  their  duty,  attended  by 
orderlies  carrying  stable-lanterns  of  the  smoky,  smelly, 
tallow-burning  kind.  The  Colonel's  own  duty  called  him 
elsewhere,  and  he  was  glad  of  it.  He  muttered  an  inaudible 
word,  his  eyes  averted  from  his  daughter;  took  his  cap, 
gloves,  and  riding-whip,  and  strode  jingling  from  the 
room. 

Ah,  it  would  need  a  great  artist  in  words  to  depict  the 
swift  and  changing  emotions  that  swelled  and  wrung  the 
heart  of  the  poor  girl  he  left  behind  him,  and  give  some 
adequate  idea  of  the  storm  that  swept  over  her  in  that 
lonely  hour.  Joy  at  the  discovery  that  the  adored  mother 
of  her  childish  memories  yet  lived  was  drowned  in  anguish 
at  the  piercing  thought,  "She  lives,  but  not  for  me!" 
Shame  burned  her  cheeks  to  crimson,  grief  washed  them 
white  again;  her  heart  bounded  in  her  bosom,  or  sank, 
heavy  as  lead.  Except  Madame  Suchard,  the  soldier's 
wife  who  had  been  engaged  to  wait  upon  Mademoiselle 
de  Bayard,  and  who  now  might  be  heard  washing  up  the 
dinner-plates  and  dishes  in  the  little  kitchen,  there  was  no 
earthly  woman  near  to  whom  she  might  turn  for  comfort 
in  this  her  hour  of  need. 

But  as  she  wept,  not  the  freely-flowing  tears  of  girl- 
hood, but  with  the  dry  sobbings  and  painful  convulsions 
that  tortured  women  know,  there  chimed  from  the  great 
cathedral  Church  of  St.  Louis  close  by,  the  first  long  triple 
of  the  Angelus,  echoed  by  the  thinner-sounding  bells  from 
the  Convent  of  the  Augustinian  Sisters,  from  the  Priory 
of  the  Bernardine  Fathers,  from  the  House  of  the  Soeurs 
de  1'Esperance,  from  the  House  of  the  Little  Sisters  of  the 
Poor.  Mechanically  Juliette's  hand  went  to  her  bosom, 
her  pale  lips  moved,  shaping  the  sacred  words.  And  then 


THE    MAN   OF    IRON  157 

she  went  to  her  room  and  knelt  at  the  little  straw-bottomed 
prie-Dieu  that  stood  before  her  Crucifix,  and  prayed  with 
passionate  earnestness  that  He,  "Who  when  hanging  upon 
His  Cross  of  Agony  gave  His  Mother  to  be  our  Mother, 
would  hear  Her  pure  prayer  of  intercession  for  that  mother 
who  had  deserted  her  child.  Wherever  she  might  be,  how- 
ever low  she  might  have  fallen,  whatever  the  sins,  vices, 
follies  that  yet  environed  her,  held  her  back  or  dragged 
her  down,  the  ray  of  Divine  Grace  had  power  to  reach 
her,  raise  her  up,  and  lead  her  back  by  the  path  of  Pen- 
ance into  the  Way  of  Peace. 

And  pending  the  miracle,  toward  which  end  Masses 
should  be  offered  and  Communions  given;  obedience  to- 
that  father  so  cruelly  betrayed,  so  bitterly  wronged,  must, 
more  than  ever,  be  the  watchword  of  Juliette.  For  the 
conviction  began  to  dawn  in  her  that  belief  in  the  innate 
purity  and  truth  of  her  sex  having  been  destroyed  in  him 
by  the  unfaith  of  that  most  beloved,  most  unhappy  one; 
he  sought  to  safeguard  her  daughter's  virtue  by  means 
of  a  husband,  who,  being  the  only  son  of  a  widow,  and 
therefore  exempt  from  the  obligations  of  military  service, 
must  always  be  on  the  spot.  Sorrowfully  she  sought  her 
bed,  to  remember,  the  moment  her  head  touched  the  pillow, 
that  although  she  had  mustered  courage  to  plead  against 
the  Colonel's  sentence  of  marriage,  provoking  him  thereby 
to  reveal  the  long-hidden  secret  of  his  betrayal,  she  had 
never  mentioned  Charles  except  by  inference. 

What  was  he  like,  this  young  man,  pious,  virtuous,  de- 
voted to  his  mother,  energetic,  frugal,  a  manufacturer  ofr 
and  merchant  in,  the  commodity  of  woolen  cloth?  Could 
one  build  a  husband  out  of  such  materials?  Was  it  pos- 
sible ? 

She  tried  once  more.  The  effort  led  to  tossing  and  turn- 
ing. Conscience  is  most  active  in  the  night-watches. 
Juliette's  bosom-monitor  reproached  her  with  having- 
boasted  to  dear  Monica's  untidy  brother  of  the  faceless 
Charles's  mastery  of  the  art  of  fence.  Other  lapses  from 
the  strict  line  of  veracity  had  preceded  and  followed.  She 
had  told  one  curious  girl  that  Charles  owned  the  form  of  an 
athlete,  and  hair  of  ruddy  chestnut;  another  had  reaped 
the  information  that  he  possessed  a  profile  resembling 
that  of  Edgar  Ravenswood,  with  dark,  melancholy  eyes, 
and  a  jet-black  mustache  of  the  kind  that  is  silky  and 


158  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

sweeps.  Yet  another  eager  inquirer  had  elicited  the  in- 
formation that  Charles  was  quite  a  duodecimo  edition  of 
a  lover,  slender,  brilliantly  fair,  and  not  much  taller  than 
the  bride-elect.  Should  it  occur  to  these  girls  to  compare 
notes  in  some  hour  of  recess  or  exercise,  what  would  be  the 
impression  conveyed  to  the  Great  Class  ? 

One  had  left  School,  however,  and  one  was  glad  of  it. 
To  go  back  with  that  tragic  secret  locked  in  one's  bosom, 
and  mingle  with  fortunate  girls  whose  mothers  were  good 
women,  happily  alive  or  safely  in  Paradise,  how  could  one 
have  borne  that  ? 

A  well-known  footstep  outside  the  door  of  her  room, 
which  opened  from  the  little  salon,  and  a  gentle  rustling 
sent  a  shiver  through  her.  "When  the  step  moved  away 
with  its  soldierly  jingle  of  spurs  accompanying  it,  De 
Bayard's  daughter  sat  up  in  bed  and  kissed  both  hands 
to  him,  passionately;  stretching  out  her  arms  with  a  wide 
gesture  as  though  something  of  the  maternal  mingled  with 
her  love  for  him  now.  .  .  .  When  "Lights  Out"  sounded, 
and  the  gas  was  extinguished,  and  no  line  of  yellow 
showed  under  the  door,  and  the  footsteps  retreated  and 
his  door  shut  upon  them,  Juliette  crept  out  of  bed,  lighted 
the  candle,  and  picked  up  the  scrap  of  paper  that  had  been 
pushed  across  her  threshold  by  the  strong,  beloved  hand. 

It  proved  to  be  a  note  dated  that  day,  and  addressed 
from  the  Tessier's  house  in  the  Rue  de  Provence,  in  Mad- 
ame's  angular,  spidery  caligraphy.  Felicitations  to  her 
dear  friend  on  the  safe  return  of  his  cherished  one  were 
followed  by  regrets.  "My  Charles,  alas!  will  be  detained 
in  Belgium  at  least  until  the  Mardigras.  The  meeting  of 
these  dear  young  people  must  necessarily  be  deferred  until 
that  date.  But  to-morrow  being  the  Feast  of  Saint  Poly- 
carpe,  possibly  M.  le  Colonel  would  bring  Mademoiselle  to 
visit  a  friend,  old  and  most  affectionate,  punctually  at  the 
hour  of  one  midif"  With  tender  remembrances  the  note 
concluded.  Beneath  the  signature — Marie-Anastasie  Tes- 
sier — M.  le  Colonel  had  scrawled  in  pencil  the  curt  inti- 
mation: "Arranged. — H.  A.  A.  de  B." 

Knowing  Charles  safely  bestowed  in  Belgium,  Juliette 
sank  back  upon  her  pillow,  and  soon  was  calmly  sleeping 
between  her  two  great  hair-plaits.  But  slippered  footsteps 
patroled  the  Colonel's  room  until  gray  dawn  showed  be- 
tween the  slits  of  the  window-shutters,  and  the  heavy 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  159 

sighs  and  muttered  words  that  broke  from  him  would  have 
wrung  his  daughter's  faithful  heart.  Sleepless  and  hag- 
gard, the  first  pale  beams  of  January  daylight  found  him 
still  pacing  his  brown-striped  drugget,  a  letter — the  cause 
of  his  own  and  another's  misery, — crushed  in  his  strong 
right  hand: 

"555,  AVENUE  DE  L'ALMA,  PARIS, 

"December  18,  1869. 

"MONSIEUR, 

"Acting  upon  instructions  received  from  the  senior 
partner  of  the  Berlin  branch  of  our  firm,  we  beg  to  ac- 
knowledge your  reply  to  his  communication  of  the  7th 
instant,  and  must  point  out  to  you  that  the  attitude  you 
assume  with  regard  to  our  client  is  equally  unjust  and 
indefensible.  No  legal  remedy  was  sought  by  you  for  the 
injuries  you  allege  that  you  sustained  through  the  infidelity 
of  the  lady  who  until  the  autumn  of  1856  occupied — and 
without  reproach — the  position  of  your  wife. 

"Further,  during  the  years  of  her  absence  from  your 
side,  she  has  neither  asked  nor  received  from  you  any 
monetary  payments  toward  her  support  and  maintenance, 
facts  which  certainly  appear  to  suggest  consent  and  knowl- 
edge upon  your  part.  You  may  further  be  aware  that 
His  deceased  Excellency,  Count  Maximilian  von  Schon- 
Valverden,  late  junior  military  attache  to  the  Prussian 
General  Staff,  fully  atoned  for  an  indiscretion  of  his  earlier 
years,  by  making  an  ample  settlement  upon  Madame  de 
Bayard ;  and  that  she  is  now  in  a  position  to  render  liberal 
assistance  to  relatives  whom  Fortune  has  not  dowered  with 
ample  means. 

"Under  the  circumstances,  we  have  advised  our  client, 
whose  natural  affection  for  her  daughter  strongly  urges 
her  to  assert  her  maternal  rights  to  the  society  of  Made- 
moiselle de  Bayard,  to  enforce  her  claim  by  the  reestab- 
lishment  of  personal  influence. 

"The  young  lady  in  question  is  still  unmarried,  under 
age,  and  therefore  subject  to  maternal  authority;  and  our 
client  does  not  disguise  her  hope  that,  by  awakening  the 
long  silent  chords  of  filial  tenderness,  she  may  gain  a  power- 
ful advocate  upon  the  side  of  reconciliation,  reunion,  and 
that  unblemished  and  peaceful  happiness  which  is  only 
to  be  found  by  the  domestic  fireside. 


160  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Recollect,  Monsieur,  that  no  legal  bar  exists  to  this 
most  virtuous  and  irreproachable  aspiration.  And  under- 
stand that  unless  a  favorable  answer  is  shortly  received 
by  our  firm  to  the  application  now  made  by  us  to  you  on 
behalf  of  our  client,  her  next  appeal  will  be  made  to  your 
daughter  and  hers. 

"We  remain,  etc., 

"WIEGELT,  NADIEB  AND  BIDUQUET, 
"Solicitors." 

By  the  chill  light  of  the  new  day  the  Colonel  for  the 
twentieth  time  re-read  the  letter,  and  its  cunning  mixture 
of  truth  and  falsehood,  the  venomed  hint  at  knowledge 
and  complicity,  struck  fangs  once  more  into  his  quivering 
heart. 

A  devout  Catholic,  he  had  never  sought  to  divorce  the 
wife  who  had  betrayed  him.  Thus  a  civil  marriage  with 
her  paramour  had  been  rendered  impossible  to  Adelaide, 
even  had  the  Count  desired  it.  Now,  furnished  with, 
ample  means  by  the  generosity  of  her  dead  lover,  did  the 
false  wife  seek  at  the  hands  of  the  injured  husband  re- 
habilitation, in  return  for  a  heap  of  tainted  gold? 

Horrible  thought!  The  walls  of  the  room  seemed  to 
close  upon  De  Bayard  suffocatingly.  He  opened  the  win- 
dow and  leaned  out,  drawing  in  deep  drafts  of  the  frosty 
morning  air.  It  cleared  his  brain ;  he  realized,  in  the  event 
of  his  contemptuous  rejection  of  the  hideous  bargain,  a 
menace  to  his  daughter's  peace  of  mind. 

Motherhood  is  of  all  earthly  relationships  the  most 
sacred.  Yet  there  are  mothers  who  in  revenge  for  disap- 
pointed hopes  and  thwarted  ambitions  have  not  hesitated 
to  strike,  through  their  own  offspring,  at  husbands  ab- 
horred. More  than  ever  the  husband  of  Adelaide  bent  to 
his  determination  of  placing  Juliette,  at  the  earliest  mo- 
ment, safe  out  of  reach  of  that  spotted  maternal  embrace. 


XXI 

UPON  the  following  afternoon  the  Colonel  duly  escorted 
Mademoiselle  to  the  dwelling  of  Madame  Tessier.  You 
may  conceive  that  the  portly  little  warrior,  when  panoplied 


fTHE   MAN   OE   IRON  161 

in  the  full-skirted,  black  frock-coat,  gray  peg-top  trousers, 
black  cravat  and  vest,  and  curly-brimmed  silk  chimney- 
pot of  private  life,  looked  a  very  gallant  gentleman ;  and 
that  his  daughter,  attired  in  a  new  and  charming  costume 
of  fine  blue  cloth,  trimmed  with  velvet  and  loops  of  black 
silk  cord,  and  wearing  a  sealskin  coat  and  a  minute  bonnet, 
consisting  of  a  knot  or  two  of  blue  velvet,  a  froth  of  lace, 
and  half-a-dozen  richly-tinted  oak-leaves  on  her  coils  of 
black  hair,  conveyed  an  effect  of  elegant  simplicity  and 
youthful  grace,  such  as  only  a  well-bred  French  girl  knows 
how  to  combine  perfectly. 

During  the  walk,  which  absorbed  the  best  part  of  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  Juliette  occupied  herself  in  the  en- 
deavor to  glean  a  few  meager  items  of  information  with 
regard  to  her  destined  husband.  To  her  timidly-cast  bait 
the  Colonel  barely  vouchsafed  a  rise.  One  may  imagine  a 
dialogue  of  timid  interrogations  and  baffling  replies,  run- 
ning somewhat  after  this  fashion : 

"Dear  father,  upon  reflection,  I  find  myself  unable  to 
recall  the  features  of  M.  Charles  Tessier  with  anything 
approaching  clearness.  I  pray  you  be  kind  enough  to 
describe  him  to  me  ? " 

' '  My  daughter,  I  myself  experience — how  shall  I  phrase 
it? — a  difficulty  in  verbally  portraying  the  form  and  fea- 
tures of  that  excellent  young  man.  But  his  mother  carries 
his  image  in  her  heart,  and  doubtless  has  it  on  her  walls 
and  in  her  albums.  Look  in  the  one  before  you  search 
the  others ;  it  will  be  wise. ' ' 

"Assuredly.     But,  my  father " 

' '  Chut ! ' '  The  Colonel  twirled  a  waxed  end  of  his  mag- 
nificent mustache,  and  resumed  presently:  "M.  Charles 
Tessier  is  a  gentleman  of  honor,  an  excellent  man  of  busi- 
ness, and  a  most  desirable  parti  for  any  young  girl  of  good 
family  and  limited  fortune.  Could  the  most  exacting 
bride-elect  demand  more  than  this?  In  addition,  he  has 

a  fine  hand " 

'Indeed,  dear  father- 


A  fine  hand  was  something  tangible.  The  owner  of  the 
commended  extremity  might  in  addition  be  possessor  of  a 
good  figure,  broad  shoulders,  a  handsome  nose.  .  .  .  And 
yet  hunchbacks  occasionally  have  neat  hands,  and  the 
Colonel  had  only  testified  to  one.  That  idea  might  be 
dismissed  as  fanciful.  Of  course,  Charles  had  the  proper' 


162  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

complement  of  legs  and  arms.  Half-smiling  at  her  own 
terrors,  Juliette  murmured: 

' '  Pray  go  on,  dear  father !    You  said — a  fine  hand  ..." 

"Hah — aha!  yes.  A  fine  hand  for  a  stroke  at  billiards. 
In  addition,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  Charles  has  a  magnifi- 
cent head " 

' '  I  am  listening,  dear  father !  .  .  . " 

"A  truly  magnificent  head  for  figures!  Book-keeping 
by  double-entry  is  infant's  play  to  this  admirable  young 
man.  He  must  teach  thee  the  logarithms,  my  child,  when 
thou  art  married.  .  .  .  Docile  and  intelligent  as  thou  art, 
thou  wouldst  quickly  learn  to  be  his  secretary  and  head- 
clerk.  It  should  be  a  true  wife's  ambition  to  help  her 
husband  in  business,  and  this  is  alone  possible  when  his 
avocations  are  of  the  strictly  civil  kind. ' ' 

It  was  tragic.  In  her  dreams  Juliette  Bayard  had  aided 
to  put  on  the  casque,  and  buckle  the  cuirass  of  a  stately 
warrior.  Now  she  must  perforce  mend  the  gray  goose- 
quill  of  a  knight  of  the  counting-house.  You  might  have 
seen  how  her  slender  throat  swelled  against  the  encircling 
band  of  velvet.  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  To  keep  them 
back  she  bit  her  lip,  straightened  her  back,  and  shrugged, — 
one  barely  perceptible  shrug.  The  Colonel  said, — was  his 
kind  glance  a  little  troubled  as  it  turned  on  her  ? — 

"The  letter  of  Madame  Tessier  has  made  it  clear  to 
thee,  that  although  thou  wilt  see  thy  future  husband  soon, 
the  meeting  will  not  take  place  upon  the  present  occasion. 
Since  October  M.  Charles  Tessier" — the  Colonel  twisted 
his  mustache — "has  been  detained  by  affairs  at  Mons-sur- 
Trouille  in  Belgium.  I  understand  that  at  this  country 
hamlet — near  the  town  of  Mons — is  situated  the  manufac- 
tory of  his  partner,  M. — the  name  for  the  moment  escapes 
me.  He  is  a  wealthy  gentleman  of  excellent  Flemish  fam- 
ily. The  daughter,  I  remember,  was  called  Clemence  or 
Clementine. ' ' 

The  Colonel  cleared  his  throat.  Juliette  expressed  a 
preference  for  the  name  of  Clementine.  The  Colonel 
begged  her  pardon.  After  all,  it  was  Clemence.  That  did 
not  matter.  Mademoiselle  liked  the  name  of  Clemence 
nearly  as  well  as  Clementine.  The  Colonel  tugged  at  the 
other  side  of  the  fiercely-waxed  mustache,  and  changed 
the  subject. 

"The    pavement  rings  beneath  the   heel;   I   prophesy 


163 

frost  to-night.  Thou  art  cold,  my  child,  I  saw  thee  shiver. 
Shall  we  walk  more  quickly  ?  It  will  be  better  so. ' ' 

She  quickened  her  steps  at  the  suggestion.  There  had 
already  been  frost,  and  the  air  was  keen  and  sparkling  as 
champagne.  The  young  blood  in  her  veins  answered  to 
the  pleasant  stimulus  of  exercise.  Her  cheeks  were  rose- 
tinted  porcelain,  her  eyes  blue  stars,  despite  her  wretched- 
ness, by  the  time  they  reached  Madame  Tessier's  door. 

The  house  of  the  Widow  Tessier  was  in  the  Rue  de  Pro- 
vence, which  runs  north  from  the  Avenue  de  Saint  Cloud, 
not  far  from  above  its  junction  with  the  Carrefour  de  Mon- 
treuil,  and  ends  at  the  corner  of  the  Boulevard  de  la  Reine. 

A  quiet,  retiring  street,  its  houses  separated  by  ample 
gardens,  hidden  by  high  walls  of  brick  faced  with  fine 
gray  Caen  stone,  generally  festooned  with  pretty  creepers 
and  overtopped  by  stately  trees.  A  noble  pine  shaded  the 
green  glass  conservatory,  large  enough  to  be  termed  a 
winter-garden,  which  projected  on  the  south  side,  from 
what  was  a  solidly  built  villa  plastered  yellow,  with  a 
raised  ground-floor,  second  story  and  attic  story  with  Man- 
sard windows;  the  short  sloping  roof,  and  these — indeed, 
the  whole  of  the  attic  story  to  the  floor-line,  where  a  fine- 
worked  cornice  of  stone  ran  round  the  building — being 
covered  with  grayish-blue  slates. 

You  rang  at  a  gate  of  open  ironwork,  white-painted,  in 
which  was  a  smaller  gate  to  admit  pedestrians,  and  while 
you  were  waiting  for  someone  to  answer  the  bell,  you  had 
leisure  to  admire  the  heavy  porte  cochere  upon  your  left, 
of  solid  oak  timbers,  studded  with  iron  bolts,  surmounted 
with  a  fine  arch  of  stone,  centered  with  a  blank  lozenge ;  and 
the  neat  balcony  railing  topping  the  wall  to  your  right, 
in  which  was  a  modest  little  iron-studded  door  leading  to 
the  kitchen  and  servants'  offices,  always  secured  by  a  huge 
lock,  and  opened  with  much  groaning  of  inward  bolts. 

You  are  to  understand  that  the  roof  of  the  kitchen 
formed  a  leaden  terrace  upon  which  the  bay  of  the  draw- 
ing-room and  other  ground-floor  windows  opened;  these, 
like  the  windows  on  the  basement  and  upper  stories,  being 
furnished  with  outside  shutters,  the  slatted  wooden  pat- 
tern with  which  Continental  travelers  are  familiar,  yellow- 
painted  to  match  the  plaster  of  the  walls.  The  terrace 
could  be  gained  by  a  short  flight  of  stone  steps  rising  upon 
your  right  as  you  entered.  But  upon  a  visit  of  ceremony 


164  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

you  went  on  to  the  main  entrance,  which  was  reached  by  a 
handsome  ascent  of  five  broad,  shallow  steps  of  the  Caen 
stone,  continued  along  the  north  and  east  sides  of  the 
house,  so  that  from  any  of  the  ground-floor  windows,  which 
were  all  of  antique  French  door-pattern,  you  could  descend 
into  the  garden  at  will.  The  hall-door  commanded  a  view 
of  the  stables  and  the  cottage  attached  to  them,  whose 
tenant  combined  the  office  of  coachman  with  the  duties  of 
a  gardener.  You  could  not  call  those  buildings  unpic- 
turesque,  covered  as  they  were  with  the  now  leafless 
branches  of  a  great  vine  and  a  magnificent  wistaria.  Be- 
yond there  stretched  a  kitchen-garden,  with  beds  of  flowers 
and  vegetables,  under  glass  and  in  the  open;  and  splendid 
espaliers,  whence  many  a  basket  of  luscious  cherries,  huge 
blue  plums,  brown  Bon  Chretien  pears,  and  melting  nec- 
tarines, were  gathered  for  the  table  in  the  season  of  such 
luscious  fruits.  And  behind  and  to  the  north  side  of  the 
villa  was  the  pleasance,  which  must  have  formed  part  of 
a  nobleman's  park  at  one  time.  For  winding  walks  bor- 
dered with  ground-ivy  led  you  in  and  out  and  among 
•clumps  of  oak  and  chestnut,  and  stately  limes  and  acacias 
stood  upon  the  sunlit  spaces  of  its  velvet-lawns ;  while  near 
its  bounds  shrubberies  and  thickets  of  Portugal  laurel  and 
lilac,  bird-cherry  and  hawthorn,  syringa  and  arbutus  har- 
bored thrush  and  blackbird,  and  in  spring  rejoiced  the  lover 
of  beauty  and  perfume;  and  one  great  tulip  tree  opened  its 
crimson-purple  chalices  beneath  the  rains  and  suns  of 
early  June.  From  the  eastern  boundary-wall  jutted  a  stone 
pipe,  ending  in  a  mask,  from  the  mouth  of  which  fell  a  jet 
of  clear  water,  forming  a  tiny  pond,  and  a  brook  that  ran 
away  between  stones  covered  with  moss  and  overgrown 
with  ferns  and  water-plants.  But  just  now  the  pond  was 
frozen,  and  a  great  icicle  hung  from  the  jaws  of  the  grin- 
ning Satyr,  and  the  blackened  leaves  of  the  water-loving 
plants  and  club-mosses  were  hidden  under  a  thin  covering 
of  recently-fallen  snow.  What  strange  uses  this  place  was 
to  serve  before  the  terrible  year  of  1870  was  ended !  How 
many  letters  signed  "Charles"  were  to  be  drawn  by  the 
tiny  hand  of  P.  C.  Breagh's  Infanta  from  that  grinning 
satyr-mouth. 

Entering  the  house — for  you  are  to  see  it  plainly,  serving 
as  it  did  for  a  theater  upon  whose  table  the  life-blood  of 
France  was  to  flow;  and  her  body,  beneath  the  steady, 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  165 

skillful  hands  of  a  man  well  fitted  to  perform  such  opera- 
tions, was  fated  to  undergo  a  terrible  mutilation — entering 
the  house  by  the  double  glass-doors,  you  found  yourself 
in  a  parqueted  hall,  furnished  with  Empire  consoles  and 
large  mirrors  in  frames  of  tarnished  gilding.  The  chief 
staircase,  covered  with  striped  drugget  in  gray-and-red, 
you  found  immediately  upon  your  right.  Under  this  was 
the  opening  to  a  servants'  stairway  leading  down  to  the 
kitchen  beneath  the  terrace.  Upon  your  left  was  a  small 
door  masking  another  servants'  stairway  leading  to  the 
attics;  and  beyond  this  two  large  folding-doors,  covered 
with  green  baize,  led  into  a  medium-sized  but  lofty  apart- 
ment, used  as  the  dining-room,  looking  out  on  the  garden, 
and  hung  with  a  crimson  flock  paper  patterned  with  gilt 
palm-leaves,  against  which  hung  some  large  landscapes 
and  antique  hunting-scenes  in  oils.  There  was  a  hand- 
some white  marble  fireplace,  with  a  high  mantel-slab  sup- 
ported by  terminal  figures,  one  a  nymph,  wanton-lipped 
and  languid-eyed,  her  full  voluptuous  bosom  partly  veiled 
by  a  leopard  skin,  her  disheveled  hair  crowned  with  ivy, 
like  that  of  her  companion ;  a  faun,  and  young,  judging  by 
his  budding  horns. 

A  third  pair  of  folding-doors  facing  the  hall-entrance 
opened  into  the  drawing-room;  a  fourth  to  the  right  of 
these  gave  entrance  to  the  billiard-room,  from  which  access 
might  be  gained  by  a  low  glass  door  into  the  winter- gar- 
den, a  high-domed  glass  house  full  of  palms  and  tree-ferns, 
boasting  a  little  fountain,  whose  leaden  dolphin,  balanced 
almost  perpendicularly  on  his  tail  in  the  center  of  a  moss- 
stained  basin,  could  spout  high  enough  to  wet  the  green 
roof  when  any  charitable  hand  might  set  him  going.  A 
door  at  the  farther  end  of  this  winter-garden  gave  access 
to  a  small  room  lined  with  books,  classical  works  by  stand- 
ard French  authors  for  the  most  part,  smelling  moldy, 
and  apt,  when  a  curious  hand  strove  to  remove  them  from 
their  shelves,  to  stick  to  their  neighbors  on  either  side. 
And  looking  at  the  conservatory  from  outside,  one  per- 
ceived, running  along  the  entire  length  of  the  rounded 
glass  roof,  a  wrought-iron  gangway,  or  double-sided  bal- 
cony. From  which,  according  to  the  testimony  of  Madame, 
the  late  M.  Tessier,  from  whose  dressing-room  this  aerial 
promenade  could  be  gained  by  a  glass  door  had  been 
accustomed  to  enjoy  the  prospect  and  breathe  the  air. 


166  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 


XXII 

MADAME,  a  discreet  and  sensible-looking  person,  with  very 
little  more  mustache  than  is  becoming  to  a  Frenchwoman 
of  sixty,  embraced  Juliette  warmly  on  both  cheeks,  and 
graciously  received  the  Colonel's  salute  upon  her  mittened 
left  hand.  The  mittens  were  invariably  black  in  tribute 
to  the  memory  of  the  late  M.  Tessier.  Madame 's  half- 
mourning,  gray  poplin  gown,  trimmed  with  black  gimp 
upon  the  gores,  round  the  bottom  of  the  expansive  skirt 
and  upon  the  waist  and  shoulder-lappets,  might  have  been 
the  same  she  had  always  worn,  in  Juliette's  memory.  Her 
cap  had  lavender  ribbons,  her  front  was  bay,  whereas  it 
had  been  chestnut,  and  the  net  of  black  chenille-velvet,  in 
which  she  confined  her  back  hair,  plentiful  in  quantity 
and  iron  gray  like  her  mustache  and  eyebrows,  had  silver 
beads  upon  it  here  and  there. 

Father  and  daughter  were  made  welcome,  were  enter- 
tained with  wine  of  Madeira,  raspberry- vinegar — for  which 
sweet,  subacid  beverage,  diluted  with  water,  young  ladies 
were  expected  to  express  a  preference — macaroons,  rata- 
fias, and  little  pink  ice-cakes.  The  Colonel,  having  ac- 
cepted a  glass  of  the  good  vintage  and  consumed  a  biscuit, 
expressed  a  desire  to  walk  round  the  garden;  Madame, 
who  had  suggested  the  excursion,  and  Juliette,  who  had 
gone  goose-flesh  all  over — were  left  to  a  tete-a-tete. 

During  the  collation  described  above,  Mademoiselle's 
blue  eyes  had  discreetly  raked  the  walls  of  the  dining-room 
in  search  of  portraits.  Nothing  rewarded  her  search  but 
a  highly  varnished  oil  presentment  of  a  simpering  young 
woman  in  the  vast  flowery  bonnet,  the  bunches  of  side- 
curls,  and  the  high-waisted  gown  of  1830,  in  whom  one 
must  perforce  discover  Madame  in  her  twentieth  year.  A 
case  of  three  miniatures  hung  beside  the  copper  wood- 
tongs  on  the  left  of  the  fireplace.  When  Madame  affec- 
tionately leaned  to  her  young  guest,  patted  her  hand,  and 
bade  her  take  her  seat  upon  a  green  velvet  fauteuil  between 
Madame 's  own  high-backed  arm-chair  and  the  carved-oak- 
framed,  glass-covered  embroidery  picture  of  Dido  on  her 
funeral  pyre  that  served  as  fire-screen,  Juliette,  in  the  act 
of  transit,  cast  a  rapid  glance  at  this  case.  In  vain.  Only 
M.  Tessier,  in  a  high  satin  stock,  gray  curls  and  strips  of 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  167 

side-whisker,  Madame  in  a  lace  cap,  fiddle-bodied  brown 
silk  gown,  berthe,  and  cameo  brooch,  and  a  chubby  infant 
of  indeterminate  sex,  with  sausage  curls  and  tartan  shoul- 
der-knots, rewarded  her  anxious  scrutiny.  She  could  not 
restrain  a  sigh. 

To  be  taken  by  the  chin  is  not  unpleasant  to  a  young 
lady,  under  the  right  conditions  and  given  certain  circum- 
stances. But  when  the  ringed  and  bony  fingers  enclosed 
in  Madame 's  black  mitten,  turned  the  small,  pale  oval  to 
the  light,  a  choking  lump  rose  in  Juliette's  throat,  and  the 
black  lashes  veiled  the  eyes  her  aged  friend  would  have 
peered  in.  She  felt  given  over  to  harpies,  abandoned  and 
alone.  Almost  she  could  have  rushed  to  one  of  the  long 
French  windows,  wrenched  it  open,  and  fled  to  the  shelter 
of  her  father.  I  wonder  whether  the  Colonel  was  as  ill  at 
ease  as  his  daughter,  as  he  paced  the  winding  paths  under 
the  leafless  trees,  between  the  beds  of  snow-powdered 
ground  ivy,  already  sprinkled  with  patches  of  aconite  in 
partially  thawed  places,  shining  yellow  as  little  suns 
against  dark  leaves  and  wet  brown  earth.  .  .  . 

She  could  see  him  from  the  nearer  of  the  three  long 
windows  opening  on  the  steps  that  led'  to  the  garden.  He 
walked  among  the  trees  bare-headed,  holding  his  high  silk 
hat  and  gold-topped  Indian  cane  behind  him,  his  handsome 
double  chin  bent  upon  his  breast,  his  fine  face  full  of  care. 
Even  his  boldly-curled  mustaches  seemed  to  droop  under 
the  weight  of  sorrows  that  were  no  longer  hidden  from 
his  child. 

At  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  distrusted  her,  she  was 
almost  certain.  And  from  the  bottom  of  her  own  heart 
she  forgave  the  cruel  wrong.  He  had  come  to  believe, 
since  the  great  betrayal,  that  every  woman  save  the  Mother 
of  all  mothers,  and  his  own,  had  it  in  her  to  play  the 
traitress,  given  the  opportunity.  Thus  the  opportunity 
was  not  to  be  given  to  Juliette. 

Madame  was  speaking.  She  no  longer  held  the  little 
chin,  though  the  chill  of  her  hard  finger-tips  still  seemed 
to  cling  to  it.  She  smiled  benevolently,  making  curves  of 
parenthesis  in  her  well-powdered  cheeks,  and  sometimes 
punctuating  her  sentences  by  a  rather  disconcerting  click 
of  teeth  that  were  too  startlingly  white  and  never  seemed 
to  fit  properly. 

"One  understands,  my  cherished"   (click},  "that  this 


168  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

visit  is  a  little  triste  for  thee.  .  .  .  One  who  should  have 
been  here  to  welcome  thee  does  not  appear.  To  repress  the 
feelings  is  convenable"  (click}  ''in  a  young  girl  of  good 
education,  but  nevertheless  one  cannot  hide  the  oppression 
of  the  heart.  Rest  assured,  my  little  one,  that  my  Charles 
— who  is  to  be  thy  Charles  so  soon" — Madame 's  playful- 
ness, emphasized  by  the  click  described,  was  more  than  a 
little  grisly — "suffers  as  thou  dost.  He  is  chagrined  to  the 
very  soul,  believe  me !  that  he  cannot  be  with  thee  here  to- 
day. Detained  in  Belgium,  at  Mons-sur-Trouille  (where 
he  has  a  manufactory  for  the  production  of  woolen  fab- 
rics)— by  important  business  in  connection  with  an  im- 
mense order  given  by  a  Paris  firm  of"  (click)  "drapers, 
thou  canst  picture  him  counting  the  hours  that  must  elapse 
before  the  happy  moment  of  his  return.  He  is  ardent,  my 
Charles — noble,  sincere,  religious,  and  candid.  I,  his 
mother,  say  to  thee:  Thou  art  happy"  (click)  "to  have 
won  the  love  of  so  estimable  a  young  man!" 

And  with  this  maternal  peroration  two  gray  poplin 
sleeves  went  out  and  enfolded  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard,  and 
two  rapid  touches  of  Madame  Tessier's  mustache  visited 
first  her  left  cheek  and  then  her  right  one.  Fluttering  like 
a  caught  robin,  Juliette  faltered: 

"You  are  so  good,  dear  Madame,  but  when  did  I  win 
it?"  She  added,  released  from  the  imprisoning  sleeves, 
and  with  a  bright  red  rose  of  agitation  blooming  in  the 
center  of  each  pale  cheek:  "Alas!  I  refer  to  the  love  of 
M.  Charles  Tessier.  ...  If  I  might  know  where  he  has 
seen  me  ?  ...  I  cannot  recollect  his  ever  having  been  pre- 
sented to  me.  In  my  mind,  Madame,  your  son  has  no 
form,  no  features.  ...  It  is  terrible,  but  there  you  have 
the  fact!" 

The  truth  was  out  at  last.  Now  that  the  room  had  left 
off  whirling,  Madame 's  benevolent  smile  shone  forth  un- 
changed. She  clicked,  and  returned  with  archness  that 
was  labored. 

"My  Juliette,  I  comprehend.  Thou  wert  just  a  little 
bewildered.  .  .  .  Thy  father  has  not  made  it  quite  clear. 
.  .  .  Ah,  naughty  M.  le  Colonel,  I  shall  scold  him  by- 
and-by!" 

"Pray,  no!"  Juliette's  little  hands  went  out  entreat- 
ingly.  "Only  explain,  dear,  dearest  Madame,  for  I  am 
bewildered,  as  you  say  truly.  My  father's  command  that 


THE    MAX    OF    IRON  169 

I  should  leave  school,  provide  myself  with  a  trousseau,  and 
come  here  to  be  married — instantly — to  M.  Charles  Tessier ! 
— was  so  brusque — so  sudden — that  I  might  be  pardoned 
for  saying  I  have  felt  less  like  a  young  girl  than  a  poor 
lamb,  hurriedly  taken  from  the  fold  and  driven  to  the 
butcher's  yard." 

"Poor  little  lamb!"  drolled  Madame,  still  portentously 
playful,  and  displaying  a  gleaming  double  row  of  teeth 
between  the  parenthesis.  Juliette  felt  more  than  ever  like 
the  lamb  of  her  analogy,  as  she  strove  to  read  the  meaning 
of  the  smile.  Madame  continued:  "Too  much  boldness — 
an  excessive  display  of  sangfroid — my  Charles  has  ever 
disliked  in  women.  When  I  tell  him  how  gentille  thou  art, 
how  sensitive,  and  how  spirituelle,  he  will  say  to  me, 
'My  mother,  thou  hast  chosen  well!  and  when  he  sees 
thee 

Something  in  the  well-powdered  elderly  face  of  the 
speaker  sent  an  electrical  shock  of  comprehension  through 
Juliette 's  being,  evoking  the  cry : 

"Sees  me.  .  .  .     But  then  ...  he  has  never  seen  me?" 

It  was  necessary  to  hold  on  with  one's  own  eyes  to 
Madame 's,  they  so  spun  and  whirled  in  their  rather  small, 
round  orbits.  Then  they  steadied,  as  though  she  had  made 
her  mind  up.  She  said,  and  though  the  treacly  suavity  had 
gone  out  of  her  voice,  Juliette  liked  it  better: 

"No,  my  child — Charles  has  never  seen  thee.  This  is  a 
betrothal — this  will  be  a  marriage  exclusively  arranged  by 
the  parents  of  the  young  people  concerned.  Thy  father, 
the  son  of  my  beloved  friend  Antoinette  de  Bayard,  does 
not  desire  that  the  husband  of  his  Juliette  should  be  a 
member  of  the  military  profession, — I  am  averse  to  the  idea 
of  my  son 's  bestowing  his  name  upon  the  Protestant  daugh- 
ter of  a  Flemish  woolen-manufacturer — for  that  that  was 
originally  my  son's  intention,  I  will  not  seek  to  deny. 
Wounded  in  my  tenderest  and  most  susceptible  spot  by  the 
announcement  of  Charles's  infatuation,  I  might  have 
estranged  him  for  ever — even  hurried  on  the  catastrophe  I 
feared,  had  not  the  advice  of  my  director,  Dom  Clovis, 
of  the  Carmelite  Fathers — fortified  and  sustained  me  in 
the  trying  hour!  I  wrote  to  my  son.  I  poured  out  my 
maternal  heart  in  pleadings  the  most  earnest — the  most 
tender.  I  recalled  to  him  the  dispositions  of  his  late 
father's  will.  Under  this  document,"  Madame  went  on, 


170  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

drying  a  tear  with  a  deep-hemmed  cambric  handkerchief, 
"I  possess  the  power  at  pleasure  to  divert  from  Charles 
and  his  heirs  a  considerable  portion  of  his  sainted  father's 
funded  property.  And  that  power,"  said  Madame,  drying 
another  tear,  "I  solemnly  assured  my  child,  would — in  the 
event  of  his  union  with  Mademoiselle  Clemence  Basselot 
— unhesitatingly  be  used." 

"Words  might  have  come  from  the  pale  parted  lips  before 
her.  Madame  tapped  them  to  silence  with  a  mittened  fin- 
ger and  pursued  her  way. 

"Charles  is  profoundly  reasonable — a  quality  he  in- 
herits from  both  parents.  He  wrote  to  me  a  letter  inex- 
pressibly touching  in  its  expressions  of  filial  trust  and  con- 
fidence, over  which,  I  assure  thee,  I  have  shed  the  most  con- 
soling tears." 

Something  had  previously  crackled  in  the  pocket  of 
Madame 's  black  silk  apron,  when  she  had  smoothed  it  over 
her  knees  in  seating  herself.  Now  she  drew  it  out,  and 
Juliette  saw  a  blue  envelope  directed  in  a  handwriting  of 
the  business-like,  copper-plate  description.  The  sheet  of 
white  paper  the  envelope  contained  had  an  engraved  pic- 
ture-heading of  a  square  building  possessing  many  win- 
dows— no  doubt  the  Belgian  cloth  manufactory  possessed  in 
partnership  by  MM.  Basselot  and  Tessier.  From  the  page, 
closely  covered  all  down  one  side  with  regular  lines  of 
mercantile  handwriting,  Madame  read: 

"Sentiments  of  the  most  profound  agitated  me  as  I 
read  thy  letter.  These  sentences  penned  by  a  mother's 
hand,  have  touched  me  to  the  quick.  Thy  arguments,  so 
delicate,  yet  so  powerful,  have  convinced  me  of  the  im- 
possibility of  the  union  toward  which — I  will  own! — my 
wishes  urged  me.  I  abandon  the  idea  henceforth!  Since 
Mademoiselle  Clemence  is  not  to  be  mine,  choose  then  for 
me,  best  and  noblest  of  women.  Let  her  who  taught  my 
infant  lips  to  murmur  the  beloved  name  of  mother  select 
for  me  some  virtuous  young  girl  upon  whom  I  may  confer 
the  equally  sacred  title  of  Wife. 

"THY  CHARLES." 

And  there,  with  a  flourish  like  a  double  lasso,  M.  Tessier 's 
letter  ended,  leaving  Juliette  swaying  between  the  impulse 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  171 

to  shriek  with  laughter  and  the  urgent  desire  to  melt  away 
in  tears. 

Madame  came  to  her  rescue  by  proposing  a  visit  to  the 
billiard-room,  built  and  appointed  by  the  late  M.  Tessier 
to  afford  his  son  wholesome  recreation  at  home.  For 
otherwise,  Madame  explained,  the  young  man  might  have 
been  allured  by  the  amusements  to  be  found  in  the  saloons 
of  the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs  and  other  brilliant  and  fashion- 
able lounges,  full  of  dissipated  civilians  and  officers  of 
every  branch  of  the  military  and  naval  services.  Clubs 
Madame  regarded  as  gateways  to  eternal  perdition.  She 
dried  another  tear  as  she  thanked  Heaven  that  her  be- 
loved child  did  not  belong  to  one.  "When  possible,  she 
added,  Charles  avoided  restaurants.  A  congenital  delicacy 
of  constitution  rendered  over-seasoned  dishes  little  less 
than  poison  to  him ;  he  habitually  suffered  from  nettle-rash 
after  the  consumption  of  shellfish.  Green  salad  was,  upon 
this  count,  pernicious  to  his  well-being.  Nor  should  he 
ever  be  permitted  to  sleep  without  a  nightcap,  having  been 
subject  to  earache  from  his  youth. 

The  mental  picture  of  Charles,  suffering  from  an  attack 
of  nettle-rash  and  crowned  with  his  protective  nightcap, 
sent  the  listener's  balance  dipping  toward  hysteria.  They 
were  in  the  billiard-room,  a  pleasant,  longish  salle,  with 
two  high  windows  opening  on  the  frontward  terrace.  The 
glass  door  stood  open  leading  into  the  winter-garden :  from 
whence  came  a  smell  of  hot-water  pipes,  damp  moss,  and 
mold,  with  an  added  whiff  of  ferniness,  and  a  suggestion 
of  the  cockroaches  and  mice  that  pervaded  the  place. 

And  then:  "Thou  seest,  my  sweet  Juliette" — pray 
imagine  Madame,  indicating  with  a  lifted  mitten  a  gilt- 
framed  square  of  canvas  hanging  between  the  two  French 
windows — ' '  a  speaking  portrait,  painted  but  two  years  ago, 
of  my — I  should  say,  of  our  beloved  Charles. ' ' 

Obediently  the  eyes  of  Mademoiselle  Bayard  followed 
the  direction  of  the  pointing  finger.  The  painter  or  the 
evil  genius  of  Charles  Tessier  had  induced  him  to  sit  for 
his  portrait  in  the  habiliments  of  the  chase ;  thus  in  sport- 
ing checks  of  the  chessboard  pattern,  with  the  addition  of 
yellow  leather  leggings,  gun  pads,  and  a  game  bag,  and 
holding  between  his  knees  a  weapon  which  obviously  em- 
barrassed him,  he  was  presented  for  the  first  time  to  the 


172  THE    MAX    OF    IRON 

gaze  of  his  future  bride.  Those  eyes  of  Juliette's  fastened 
on  the  canvas  a  single  moment  before  their  dusky  lashes 
dropped.  But  in  that  moment  Mademoiselle  had  classified 
Charles  as  belonging  to  the  Order  of  Invertebrates;  com- 
prehended his  profound  insignificance,  and  realized  that 
from  the  owner  of  a  head  so  commonplace,  eyes  so  round, 
and  a  nose  so  blunt,  a  mouth  so  lax,  and  cheeks  so  pink 
and  chubby — possibly  the  artist  had  been  liberal  of  car- 
mine— nothing  more  of  originality,  decision,  manly  force, 
or  power  of  will  might  be  expected  than  is  commonly 
demanded  of  the  child's  whirligig  of  stick  and  cardboard, 
as  seen  gyrating  madly  or  spinning  feebly  under  the  im- 
petus of  its  owner 's  breath. 

It  was  impossible,  Mademoiselle  told  herself,  to  detest 
a  being  so  utterly  devoid  of  character — a  human  pad  of 
blotting  paper — as  uninteresting  as  a  counting-house  stool. 
One  could  only  pity  him,  and  hope  for  his  mother's  sake 
that  sound  business  capacities  were  concealed  behind  that 
characterless  forehead,  topped  with  brown  hair  cut  very 
short  and  standing  upon  end — and  wonder  at  or  congratu- 
late Mademoiselle  Clemence.  Flamandes  are  generally  big 
and  muscular.  One  could  only  hope  that  she  had  taken 
Charles  by  his  sloping  shoulders  and  soundly  shaken  him 
when  he  had  backed  out  of  his  proposal  of  marriage. 
Though  possibly  he  had  never  spoken  to  the  girl  at  all. 

M.  le  Colonel  found  his  daughter  silent  during  their 
walk  back  to  the  Barracks.  After  a  questioning  eyeshot 
or  so  at  the  dainty  little  figure  that  moved  so  demurely 
beside  him — abandoning  the  vain  endeavor  to  read  her 
mood  from  the  droop  of  the  pure  eyelids,  the  chiseled  lines 
of  the  exquisite  profile — the  father  relapsed  into  his  own 
sad  thoughts.  And  then  Juliette,  stealing  a  glance  at  him, 
realized,  with  a  pang,  that  his  once  luxuriant  black  curls 
were  thinning  in  places,  and  already  thickly  sown  with 
white  hairs.  The  upright  martial  carriage  was  marred 
by  a  rounding  of  the  shoulders — the  stoop  of  a  man  upon 
whose  back  sits  perched  Black  Care.  The  seams  of  the 
immaculately  brushed  frock-coat  of  civil  ceremony  were 
shiny  in  places — the  rosette  of  red  ribbon  at  the  lapel  was 
frayed  and  faded — the  tiny  medal  tarnished  and  dull. 
Perhaps  the  mood  of  the  wearer,  be  it  hopeful  or  despond- 
ent, can  affect  the  apparel,  as  the  chameleon's  wrinkled 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  173 

skin  changes  from  the  hue  of  dead  bark  to  the  vivid  green 
of  young  leaves  when  sunlight  touches  it,  and  fades  back 
to  the  neutral  tint  when  the  golden  ray  is  withdrawn. 

Juliette  would  not  have  thanked  me  for  that  analogy 
of  the  prehensile-tongued,  long-tailed  lizard.  Inconstancy 
as  described  by  the  poets  is  typified  by  the  chameleon, 
and  her  faith  in  the  sincerity  and  truth  of  her  Colonel  was 
founded  upon  the  living  rock. 

We  know  that  she  had,  or  thought  she  had,  discovered 
why  he  dared  not  trust  her  to  a  husband  whose  career 
must  lead  him  from  her.  "My  blood,"  she  had  mur- 
mured to  herself  sorrowfully,  "it  must"  (she  meant  un- 
f aith )  "  be  in  my  blood ! ' '  The  reason  for  his  desperate 
haste  was  all  beyond  her.  It  must  be  cruel,  because  it 
hurt  him  so. 

That  heart  of  hers  was  as  great  as  she  herself  was  tiny. 
Titania  at  need  could  love  like  a  Titaness.  And  the  blood 
of  Antigone  runs  in  the  veins  of  living  women  even  to  this 
day,  though  the  noble  daughter  of  CEdipus  died  a  virgin 
unspotted.  When  the  fairy  hand  in  the  perfectly  fitting 
gray  glove  crept  under  the  Colonel's  elbow,  it  gave,  with 
the  smile  that  accompanied  it,  a  silent  pledge  of  fidelity 
to  the  death.  But  oh,  blind  father,  could  you  have  seen 
her,  in  that  inmost  chamber  of  the  heart  where  the  most 
innocent  maiden  shrines  the  imaginary  portrait  of  a  lover 
— taking  down  the  stately  canvas  bearing  the  presentment 
of  a  soldier-hero  unknown,  and  hanging  up  in  its  place 
the  picture  of  a  mere  Charles  Tessier,  your  eyes,  like  those 
of  the  protagonist  of  the  Greek  drama,  would  have  wept 
tears  of  blood. 

That  night  a  letter  was  penned  to  Monica  in  the  small, 
delicately  pointed  handwriting  that  seemed  appropriate 
to  Juliette. 

"To  you,  dear  friend,  who  have  exacted  of  me  the 
pledge  that  I  will  write  to  you  before  all,  a  faithful  descrip- 
tion of  the  person  of  my  future  husband,  I  hasten  to  fulfill 
the  vow.  M.  Charles  Tessier  has  a  fine  head  and  a  fine 
hand,  my  father  praises  his  capacity  for  business  and  his 
skill  at  the  billiard-table  with  equal  fervor.  Of  his  powers 
of  conversation  I  have  as  yet  not  sufficient  experience  to 
afford  you  an  opinion.  In  the  presence  of  his  mother  he 
has  been  silent  and  reserved.  His  letters,  however,  are 


174  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

eloquently  expressed  and  forcible.  When  I  mention  his 
letters,  it  should  be  explained  that  affairs  have  entailed 
upon  him  the  necessity  of  a  journey  to  Belgium,  where 
he  remains  for  the  present,  at  the  house  of  his  partner, 
M.  Basselot.  Thou  wilt  draw  from  this  the  correct  con- 
clusion that  I  am  not  yet  married.  Do  not  forget  to  pray 
for  thy  faithful 

"JULIETTE." 

"See  you  well,  I  am  happy — content — I  dream  not  of 
impossibilities.  J'ai  pris  mon  parti.  I  am  sensible,  me!" 

In  answer  to  a  second  letter  from  Monica  received  upon 
the  ending  of  the  month  there  came : 

"Tell  M.  Breagh  that  I  have  received  his  message,  so 
generously  worded.  Alas !  the  poor  young  girl  had  no  in- 
tention of  wounding  a  heart  at  once  so  courageous  and  so 
proud.  His  fellow-student  is  unjust  to  himself.  Why  term 
that  'brutality'  which  was  merely  honest  brusquerie?  Yet 
if  he  gave  pain — and  I  do  not  deny  it  was  so — he  may  rest 
assured  he  has  been  forgiven.  Tell  this  to  thy  brother, 
from 

"JULIETTE." 

' '  M.  Charles  Tessier  is  still  delayed  by  affairs  in  Belgium. 
I  visit  his  mother  nearly  every  day.  An  excellent  house- 
keeper and  cuisiniere,  she  is  charmed  with  my  skill  in 
cooking.  For  her  and  for  my  father,  who  dines  with  her 
frequently,  I  plan  delightful  little  menus.  They  eat,  and 
praise  the  dishes  and  cry — at  least,  Madame  cries:  'Ah, 
Heaven!  if  my  Charles  were  only  here!'  In  a  letter  which 
this  morning's  post  brought  me  from  the  person  men- 
tioned, he  dwells  with  that  impassioned  luxuriance  of 
imagery,  warmth  of  color  and  fullness  of  expression  not 
denied  to  his  sex,  upon  our  approaching  union.  One  can- 
not deny  that  it  is  pleasant  to  be  the  sole  object  in  life 
of  a  young  man  so  worthy  and  so  amiable,  and — ah,  my 
dearest !  were  the  sacrifice  of  a  personal  wish  demanded  of 
me,  could  I,  knowing  what  I"  (scratched  out]  "refuse  to 
gratify  the  cherished  desire  of  my  dear  father's  heart? 
Each  day  that  finds  me  by  his  side  closes  in  deeper  re- 
spect and  love  more  ardent.  Our  Lord,  Whose  will  it  was 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  175 

to  leave  me  motherless,  decreed  that  in  him  I  should  find 
the  tenderness  of  a  father  and  that  of  a  mother  too. 

"J.  M.  DEB." 

For  the  delectation  of  those  readers  who  are  anxious  to 
sample  the  luxuriant  imagery,  glowing  color  and  plenitude 
of  expression  ascribed  to  the  epistolary  communication 
received  by  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard  from  M.  Charles  Tes- 
sier  I  append  the  letter  referred  to  as  above : 

"BASSELOT    AND    TESSIEE, 

"WHOLESALE  MERCHANTS. 
"WEAVERS  AND  DYERS  OF  WOOLEN  FABRICS. 


' '  MONS-SUR-TROUILLE. 
' '  BELGIUM. 

" — th  January,  1870. 

"  MADEMOISELLE, 

"That  I  have  been  tardy  in  personally  assuring  you 
of  my  profound  regard  and  unfaltering  devotion  you  will 
pardon,  knowing  me  detained  in  a  foreign  country  in  the 
interests  of  my  business  affairs. 

"Assured  that  all  that  concerns  my  welfare  will  natur- 
ally possess  for  you  the  deepest  interest,  I  hasten  to  in- 
form you  that  jointly  with  my  partner,  M.  Felix  Basselot, 
I  have  entered  into  a  scheme  to  facilitate  the  manufacture 
of  our  woolen  cloths  and  other  textile  fabrics  by  the  pur- 
chase and  installation  of  the  most  recently  invented  ma- 
chines. Raw  cloths  are  now  subjected  to  perching,  knot- 
ting, milling,  washing,  hydro-extracting,  gigging,  cutting, 
cropping,  boiling,  brushing  and  steaming  processes  of  the 
latest  invention,  and  we  claim  that  the  output  of  our  manu- 
factory will  henceforth  vie  with  the  first  qualities  of  goods 
advertised  by  the  leading  firms  of  Belgium,  England  and 
France. 

' '  My  mother 's  letters  palpitate  with  your  praises.  What 
happiness,  Mademoiselle,  awaits  the  man  who  shall  be 
privileged  to  confer  upon  such  beauty,  goodness,  and 
amiability,  the  sacred  name  of  wife.  You  will  be  interested 
to  hear  that  for  Saxonies,  tweeds,  merinos,  and  cashmeres 
for  ladies'  drapery  our  house  maintains  its  old  reputation, 
as  well  as  for  the  heavier  fabrics  of  masculine  wear. 


176  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

' '  "Were  I  now  at  your  side,  how  enchanting  it  would  be  to 
confide  to  you  that  we  have  struck  out  a  bold  and  original 
line  in  dress-stuffs,  dyed  with  the  new  agent  called  Aniline. 
It  is  extracted  from  coal-tar,  and  the  magenta  so  much 
admired  by  our  Parisian  mondaines  is  obtained  from  it,  by 
treating  the  crude  substances  with  the  chloride  of  tin. 
From  magenta  we  derive  rosaniline,  a  dye  as  delicate  yet 
as  passionate  as  a  lover's  fondest  wishes.  In  an  experi- 
ment recently  made  in  my  presence  I  beheld  a  pure  young 
girl  immerse  in  a  solution  of  this  extraction  containing  a 
little  ammonia,  a  spotless  lily,  when  instantly  the  virginal 
blossom's  whiteness  was  changed  to  the  loveliest  roseate 
hue. 

"Thus,  dear  Mademoiselle,  your  soul,  so  chaste,  so  spot- 
less, and  so  innocent,  being  plunged  in  the  consecrated  vat 
of  marriage,  will  assume  the  glowing  hue  of  Love.  Bleu 
de  Lyons  with  Violet  Imperial,  all  the  most  fashionable 
shades  of  mauve  and  other  colors  can  be  obtained  by 
methods  equally  simple,  and  with  the  addition  of  aldehyde 
and  sulphuric  acid,  we  secure  a  green  of  the  most  brilliant, 
and  a  yellow  that  enchains  the  eye.  By  a  simple  process 
these  colors  may  be  fortified  to  stand  the  test  of  washing, 
as  firmly  and  unchangeably  as  the  affection  I  am  privileged 
to  offer  you ;  which  is  hallowed  by  the  blessing  of  the  best  of 
mothers,  and  of  a  father  noble  as  your  own. 

"Receive  then,  dear  Mademoiselle,  the  tenderest  assur- 
ances of  devotion, 

"From  yours  eternally, 

"CHARLES  JOSEPH  TESSIER." 

Over  this  epistle,  apparently  begotten  between  a  trade- 
circular  and  a  polite  letter-writer,  Juliette  had  wept  help- 
less tears  of  mirth.  Reading  it,  one  may  conjure  up  a 
picture  of  the  excellent  Charles,  spurred  by  the  maternal 
threat  of  partial  disinheritance  to  a  desperate  effort,  bend- 
ing over  the  paper  in  the  throes  of  composition,  diluting  the 
ink  with  the  sweat  of  a  non-intellectual  brow. 

Also,  one  may  suspect  the  anonymous  heroine  of  the 
experiment  with  the  lily  to  have  been  none  other  than 
Mademoiselle  Clemence  Basselot,  but  the  suspicion  has  not, 
to  the  present  date,  been  verified. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  177 


XXIII 

IN  the  July  of  that  year,  while  the  gilding  was  yet  untar- 
nished upon  France's  brand-new  Constitution — ratified  by 
a  plebiscitum  obtained  after  the  usual  methods,  and  re- 
cording seven  millions  of  pinchbeck  votes — while  the  Im- 
perial Court  of  the  Third!  Napoleon  played  at  Arcadian 
pastorals  under  the  mistletoe-draped  oaks  and  spreading 
beeches  of  St.  Cloud,  the  question  of  the  Candidacy  of 
Prince  Leopold  of  Hohenzollern  for  the  vacant  Throne  of 
Spain  appeared  in  the  firmament  of  European  politics 
(even  as  the  voice  of  Lord  Granville  prophesied  a  lengthy 
period  of  unbroken  fine  weather) — and  broke  about  the 
ears  of  the  Power  most  concerned  like  a  stinging  shower  of 
hail. 

The  Spanish  crown  upon  the  head  of  a  Hohenzollern. 
Rather  a  Montpensier,  intolerable  as  that  would  have 
been.  True,  the  Almanach  de  Gotha  had  offered  (to  Gen- 
eral Prim,  President  Zorilla,  and  the  Cortes,  assembled  in 
solemn  session)  only  the  unwelcome  alternative  of  the  legal 
heir  to  the  throne  going  begging ;  true,  the  Spanish  people 
were  very  well  satisfied  with  the  idea  of  being  ruled  by  a 
Catholic  gentleman  of  Royal  blood,  suitable  age,  handsome 
person,  and  military  experience,  married  to  a  Portuguese 
princess,  and  possessing  two  healthy  sons. 

But  that  a  Prussian  Prince,  holding  a  commission  in 
Prussia 's  Army,  should  be  set  up  like  a  signpost  of  warning 
on  France's  southern  frontier,  as  though  to  keep  her  in 
mind  of  what  would  happen  in  the  event  of  another  war 
on  the  Rhine — was,  from  the  Gallic  point  of  view,  intoler- 
able. ' '  The  security  and  the  dignity  of  the  French  nation 
are  endangered  by  this  candidacy!"  cried  Jules  Favre. 
According  to  M.  Thiers,  "the  nominacy  was  not  only  an 
affront  to  the  nation,  but  an  enterprise  adverse  to  its  in- 
terests."  Gambetta  cried  aloud  that  all  Frenchmen  must 
unite  for  a  national  war.  Marshal  Vaillant  made  a  mem- 
orandum in  his  notebook.  "This  signifies  war,  or  some- 
thing very  like  it!"  And  at  the  Council  of  Ministers 
hastily  summoned  to  St.  Cloud  on  the  morning  of  the  sixth 
of  July,  the  Emperor  passed  to  the  Duke  de  Gramont, 
his  Foreign  Minister,  a  penciled  communication.  "Notify 
Prince  Gortchakoff  at  Petersburg  that  if  Prussia  insists 


178  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

upon  the  accession  of  the  Prince  of  Hohenzollern  to  the 
throne  of  Spain,  it  will  mean  war!" 

"What  haste  to  clutch  at  the  casus  belli.  "When  the  Min- 
isters quitted  the  Imperial  Council,  and  the  Corps  Legis- 
latif  opened  its  session,  long-continued  applause  greeted 
the  declaration  of  Gramont  from  the  tribune  that  a  certain 
unnamed  Third  Power,  by  placing  one  of  its  Princes  on 
the  throne  of  Charles  V.,  threatened  to  disturb  the  equili- 
brium of  Europe,  to  imperil  the  material  interests  and  en- 
danger the  honor  of  France.  "If  it  be  impossible  to  pre- 
vent this,"  ran  the  peroration,  "strong  in  your  support, 
Messieurs,  we  shall  perform  our  duty  without  hesitation 
or  faltering!"  Here  was  an  ultimatum  that  sounded  the 
very  note  of  war. 

Do  you  hear  the  echo  of  the  thunderous  acclamations 
that  attended  the  Foreign  Minister  to  his  seat,  the  clapping 
of  hands,  stamping  of  feet,  roaring  of  lungs  that  have 
been  dust  for  more  than  forty  years,  or  are  now  on  the 
point  of  dissolving  into  their  native  element?  Naturally 
because  the  Eight  were  defiant,  the  Left  called  their  utter- 
ances bellicose.  Had  the  Right  manifested  a  disposition  to 
turn  the  other  cheek  in  Scriptural  fashion,  the  Left  would 
have  passionately  taunted  this  band  of  politicians  with  cow- 
ardice, lack  of  patriotism,  indifference  to  the  sacred  cause 
of  national  freedom, — would  have  accused  them  of  being 
traitors  to  their  country,  and  Heaven  knows  what  else. 

The  Press  threw  oil  upon  the  roaring  conflagration. 
Were  this  affront  submitted  to,  cried  the  Gaulois,  "there 
would  not  exist  a  woman  in  the  world  who  would  accept 
a  Frenchman's  arm!"  The  Correspondant  was  "relieved 
to  find  that  Frenchmen  once  more  have  become  French- 
men." The  Moniteur  Universel  was  charmed  to  discover 
that  the  blame  for  this  momentous  conflict  could  never 
be  attributed  to  the  French  Government.  The  Figaro  left 
off  making  a  cockshy  of  the*  Imperial  dignity,  to  admit  that 
for  once  the  Emperor's  official  mouthpiece  had  spoken  the 
right  word.  And  the  Debats  praised  the  attitude  taken  by 
the  Government.  "Silence  at  this  juncture  would,"  it 
cried,  "have  been  pusillanimous.  Shall  the  nation  be  ac- 
cused of  bowing  its  head  for  the  second  time,  before  the 
cannon  of  Sadowa?" 

Lord  Granville,  replacing  the  recently  deceased  Claren- 
don at  Great  Britain's  Foreign  Ministry,  mentioned  to  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  179 

Spanish  Ambassador  to  England  that  the  choice  of  Prince 
Leopold  would  create  a  sore.  He  wrote  to  Layard  at  Ber- 
lin that  he  considered  France  had  been  given  good  cause  of 
resentment.  Lyons,  in  the  shoes  of  Lord  Cowley,  at  the 
English  Embassy  in  Paris,  wrote  to  his  chief  that  the 
unhappy  affair  had  revived  all  the  old  animosity,  though 
it  seemed  to  him  that  ' '  neither  the  Emperor  nor  his  Minis- 
ters really  wish  or  expect  war!"  The  Times  of  July  8th 
was  severe  on  the  policy  of  Prussia;  the  Standard  for 
once  expressed  the  same  opinion  as  the  Times.  The  Daily\ 
Telegraph  prophesied  that  the  succession  of  the  Prussian 
Prince  would  mean  France's  present  humiliation  and  fu- 
ture peril.  The  Pall  Mall  Gazette  poked  mordant  fun  at 
the  attitude  of  unconsciousness  assumed  by  King  William, 
who,  between  sips  of  Ems  water,  declared  his  ignorance 
of  the  whole  affair.  The  Early  Wire,  backing  and  filling, 
kept  an  even  keel  for  a  day  or  two.  Then  said  Mr.  Knew- 
bit  confidentially  to  P.  C.  Breagh,  one  midsummer  evening, 
after  the  early  supper: 

"My  opinion  is  we  are  a-going  to  give  a  leg-up  to  this 
'ere  '0  'enzollern  business,  our  Chief  being — when  England, 
Home,  and  Duty  permit  him  to  indulge  the  weakness — 
a  red-  'ot  admirer  of  a  Certain  Person  at  Berlin.  Who ' ' — 
Mr.  Knewbit's  wink  was  infinitely  sagacious — "is  said  on 
the  strict  Q.T.  to  have  put  up  Field-Marshal  Prim  and  the 
Government  at  Madrid  to  making  the  proposal  to  the  young 
gentleman.  For  the  sake  of  giving  a  jolt-up  to  the  elderly 
swell  at  the  Tuileries.  We  all  have  our  ideal  'eroes,"  Mr. 
Knewbit  added,  "and  our  Chief's  partiality  dates  from  his 
acting  in  an  emergency  as  Special  War  Correspondent  for 
his  own  paper,  durin'  the  Prusso- Austrian  War  of  1866. 
It  was  at  the  Battle  of that  name  always  beats  me " 

"Koniggratz,  perhaps?"  suggested  Carolan. 

"Koniggratz — when  this  'ere  Bismarck  spurs  his  big 
brown  mare  up  to  Colonel  von  Somebody  to  ask  him  why, 
seeing  the  'eavy  losses  occurring  in  his  neighborhood  from 
Austrian  Artillery — he  didn't  ride  forward  with  his  Cuiras- 
siers to  find  out  where  the  shells  came  from?  Took  our 
Chief's  fancy  uncommon,  that  did,  as  the  iron  sugar-plums 
was  dropping  freely  in  the  neighborhood,  and  when  he 
had  rode  on,  swearing  at  the  Colonel  like  anything  you 
can  imagine — the  old  man  picked  up  a  cigar-stump  he'd 
pitched  away,  and  keeps  it  to  this  hour  in  the  pen-tray  of 


180  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  silver  inkstand  the  Proprietors  presented  him  with 
when  he  came  home." 

Said  P.  C.  Breagh  reflectively : 

"It's  the  rule,  invariably.  Men  love  Bismarck  or  lam- 
poon him — swear  by  him — or  swear  at  him.  He 's  the  devil 
or  a  demigod — there 's  no  alternative ! ' ' 

' '  Good ! ' '  said  Mr.  Knewbit,  leaning  back  in  his  Windsor 
chair,  and  rubbing  the  ear  of  the  ginger  Tom  with  the  toe 
of  one  of  his  carpet  slippers.  "Tell  us  a  bit  more.  Any- 
thing you  can  lay  hold  of.  I  want  to  see  him  stand  out  a 
bit  clearer  in  my  mind." 

"He  gets  his  name  from  the  Wendish — I've  read  in  the 
Kleine  Anekdotenbuch,"  said  P.  C.  Breagh,  "that  'Bis- 
marck' really  means  ' beware  of  the  thorns.'  And  there's 
a  golden  sprig  of  blackberry-bramble  among  the  family 
quarterings,  so  perhaps  there's  something  in  it,  after  all. 
An  ancestor  of  his  who  lived  in  the  sixteenth  century  was 
a  tailor — and  a  natural  son  of  Duke  Philip  of  Hesse,  by  the 
way!  Duke  Philip  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  St.  Eliza- 
beth of  Hungary — who  in  her  turn  was  descended  from  the 
Emperor  Charlemagne " 

"Lor'  bless  my  soul!"  said  Mr.  Knewbit,  rubbing  his 
knees. 

' '  And  he — this  man  you  want  to  know  about ! — was  born 
the  younger  son  of  a  Pomeranian  country  squire,  and 
entered  the  University  of  Gottingen  in  1831.  They  say 
that  he  permitted  study  to  interfere  so  little  with  the  more 
serious  business  of  amusement  that  the  name  of  Mad  Bis- 
marck was  given  him  then,  and  had  stuck  to  him  even  when 
he  passed  his  examination  as  Referendar,  and  began  to 
practice  law  in  the  Municipal  Court  of  Aix-la-Chapelle. " 

Mr.  Knewbit,  drinking  in  the  information  at  every  pore, 
nodded  "More" — and  P.  C.  Breagh  obliged  him: 

"He  served  his  year  as  Volunteer  at  Potsdam  in  the 
Jdgers  of  the  Guard,  and  then  went  home  to  the  paternal 
estate  of  Kneiphof ,  and  began  sowing  wild  oats — acres  and 
acres  of  them.  The  officers  of  the  garrison  were  a  hard- 
drinking  set  of  fellows,  and  the  county  Junkers  scorned  to 
be  outdone  by  them — so  they  hunted  and  shot  and  danced 
and  made  love  to  the  local  beauties — they  dined  and 
supped  and  gambled  and  fought  duels.  In  fact,  they  did 
all  the  things  men  usually  do  when  they  mean  to  have  a 
high  old  time  and  don't  care  a  damn  for  the  consequences,'* 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  181 

said  P.  C.  Breagh,  "and  when  you  regularly  hail  smiling 
morn  with  cold  punch,  beer,  and  corn-brandy,  and  wind 
up  the  night  with  quart-beakers  of  champagne  and  porter, 
the  consequences  must  be — 

* '  A  taut  skin  and  a  fiery  eye  next  morning, ' '  interpolated 
Mr.  Knewbit,  "and  a  tongue  like  a  foul  oven-plate  or  a 
burned  kettle-bottom.  But — my  stars! — what  a  constitu- 
tion that  man  must  have  to  be  as  hale  and  as  hearty,  and 
as  upright  as  they  say  he  is,  at  fifty-five,  and  with  a  family 
of  grown-up  sons!  One  wonders  how  his  sweetheart  ever 
had  the  courage  to  marry  such  a — such  a  Ring-tailed 
Roarer.  ...  But  Love 's  a  thing  you  can 't  account  for 
nohow. ' ' 

"I  have  heard  that  the  Fraulein  Puttkammer's  family 
objected  to  the  engagement,"  said  P.  C.  Breagh,  "but  he 
seems  to  have  got  over  their  prejudices  in  a  way  peculiarly 
his  own.  By  betrothing  himself  privately  to  the  Fraulein 
first,  and  then  calling  openly  to  inquire  how  the  family 
felt  about  it,"  he  added,  in  response  to  the  interrogative 
hoist  of  Mr.  Knewbit 's  eyebrows,  "and  taking  the  pre- 
caution, upon  entering  the  room — to  hug  the  young  lady 
before  all  her  friends." 

"The  hugging  would  settle  the  thing — in  Germany?" 
asked  Mr.  Knewbit. 

"To  a  dead  certainty." 

"Without  any  male  cousin  or  anything  of  that  kind 
getting  up  and  calling  the  hugger  out  ? ' '  asked  Mr.  Knewbit 
dubiously. 

"When  a  man  is  six  feet  two  inches  in  height,  is  as 
strong  as  a  bull,  and  possesses  a  well-earned  reputation 
as  a  fencer  and  pistol-shot,  even  male  cousins,"  returned 
P.  C.  Breagh,  "are  content  to  sit  still  and  let  him  hug." 

"And  then  he  married  her  and  went  into  politics — and 
to-day,  when  the  Press  says  'Prussia,'  it  means  him!" 
cried  Mr.  Knewbit.  "What  our  Chief  likes,  and  what 
fetches  me ! — is  his  cool  owdaciousness.  If  ever  I  chance 
to  find  myself  in  Berlin,"  he  added,  "before  visiting  any 
State  Collection  of  Art  Objects  ever  brought  together — 
I'd  choose  to  'ave  a  look  at  that  man!" 

Said  P.  C.  Breagh: 

"I've  seen  the  Iron  Chancellor  just  once — in  '67 — • 
passing  through  Schwarz-Brettingen  on  his  way  to  Berlin. 
It  was  in  my  first  semester  at  the  University,  and  just  after 


182  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  Constitution  of  the  North  German  Bund  was  put  into 
force  by  Royal  Patent.  The  Social  Democrats  had  pro- 
tested against  the  withdrawal  of  the  Prussian  garrison  from, 
the  independent  State  of  Luxembourg — wanted  to  rush 
Germany  into  war  over  the  business,  and  they,  as  well 
as  the  Ultramontaine,  having  plenty  of  followers  among 
the  students — both  parties  formed  up  on  the  platform  of 
the  railway-station,  and  gave  the  Count  three  groans." 

"Plow  did  he  take  'em — the  groans,  I  mean?" 

"Rather  as  if  he  liked  them,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it. 
I  can  see  him  now,  in  civil  dress,  black  frock-coat,  vest  and 
trousers,  with  a  white  choker  something  like  a  Lutheran 
clergyman's.  And  he  jammed  his  great  black  felt  hat  down 
on  his  head  and  thrust  his  huge  body  half  out  of  the  car- 
riage window.  His  eyes — fierce  blue  eyes  heavily  pouched 
underneath,  and  blazing  from  under  shaggy  eyebrows — 
swept  over  us  as  though  we  were  a  lot  of  squeaking  mice 
— though  he  was  laughing  in  a  good-tempered  sort  of  way. 
And  he  shouted  something  in  dialect — they  said  it  was  a 
common  Pomeranian  proverb,  'Let  not  Uve  men  fight 
over  a  dead  dog!'  " 

"Meaning ?" 

"Meaning,  one  would  suppose,  that  the  Luxembourg 
garrison  was  a  right  which  had  been  given  up  as  unim- 
portant, and  therefore  was  of  no  more  value  than  a  dead 
dog,  set  against  the  cost  of  a  new  war." 

"I'm  obliged  for  your  information,"  said  Mr.  Knewbit, 
pushing  back  his  chair  and  getting  up  to  reach  his  brass 
tobacco-box  from,  the  high  kitchen  mantelshelf.  "In 
return  I'll  give  you  a  bit  o'  news — which  may  be  of  walley 
to  you.  You  have  been  talking  A.I  journalism,  young 
man,  as  different  from  the  stuff  you  commonly  put  on 
paper  as  gold  is  from  this  metal" — he  tapped  the  brass 
tobacco-box — "and — my  advice  is — For  the  future,  write 
only  of  what  you  know;  have  felt,  and  heard  and  seen!" 

He  sucked  despairingly  at  the  wooden  pipe  he  was 
filling  and,  finding  it  foul,  stuck  the  stem  in  the  spout  of 
the  boiling  kettle — a  practice  abhorred  of  Miss  Ling — and 
left  it  to  be  cleaned  as  he  continued: 

' '  Big  things  are  going  on  in  the  world  at  this  moment — 
things  worth  watching  and  waiting  for.  Damme ! — though 
I'm  not  a  swearer  as  a  rule,"  said  the  little  man,  "if  I 
don't  wish  I  could  change  places  with  something  that  has 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  183 

wings.  The  great  man  we  have  been  a-talking  of  is  at  this 
minute  at  his  country-seat  in  Pomerania — that's  the 
estate  he  bought  with  the  grant — sixty  thousand  pounds 
English,  it  came  to — the  German  Parliament  voted  him 
after  the  Prussian- Austrian  War.  And  the  King  of  Prussia 
is  at  Ems,  a-drinking  the  waters,  and  the  French  Ambassa- 
dor has  been  sent  there  by  the  Emperor  Napoleon  III.  to 
obtain  a  special  audience,  I'm  told.  And  if  you  or  me 
could  swop  jobs  with  a  fly  on  the  wall  at  one  place  or  the 
other — being  a  German  insect  it  would  be  likely  to  under- 
stand their  crack  jaw  language — me  or  you  would  be  able 
to  supply  a  leaded  half-column  for  Special  Issue  that  would 
fairly  set  the  world  afire.  See  this!" 

He  took  the  short  poker  from  the  top  of  Miss  Ling's 
kitchen-range,  and,  pushing  back  his  chair,  rose  and 
approached  the  wall,  which  was  destitute  of  pictures,  and 
distempered  in  an  economical  brown  color. 

"Look  here,  I  say!    .    .    ."  began  P.  C.  Breagh. 

"The  breath  of  genius  inflates  me,"  said  Mr.  Knewbit, 
who  had  had  more  than  his  allowance  of  beer  at  supper. 
' '  The  impulse  to  prophesy  stimulates  me.  Look  at  this ! ' ' 

He  wielded  the  poker  deftly  as  he  spoke.  And  on  the 
brown  distemper  appeared  in  huge  white  letters: 

WILL  THERE  BE  WAR? 

YES! 

HOHENZOLLERN  QUESTION  NO  DEAD  DOG  TO  FRANCE ! 
GAUL.  AND  TEUTON  RIPE  FOR  CONFLICT. 

BISMARCK 'S  VIEWS ! 

"But,  there,  my  inspiration  gives  out,"  said  Mr.  Knew- 
bit, replacing  the  poker  on  the  range  and  shaking  his  head 
mournfully,  "unless  it  was  possible  to  change  with  that 
fly  on  the  wall — and  take  him  at  one  of  his  expansive, 
confidential  moments — if  he  ever  has  any — neither  me  nor 
any  other  man  living  will  ever  be  able  to  give  Bismarck's 
real  views  upon  this  or  any  other  subject  dealing  with 
Politics.  Who's  this?" 

The  hall-door  had  slammed  a  moment  previously.  There 
had  been  a  step  upon  the  oilcloth-covered  basement  stair- 
case, and  now  it  bore  Miss  Ling's  first-floor  lodger,  Herr 


184  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

von  Rosius,  the  "quiet  gentleman,"  who  taught  German 
to  English  students  and  English  to  Germans  at  the  Insti- 
tute of  Languages  in  Berners  Street,  W. — across  the  thres- 
hold of  her  tidy  kitchen,  pipe  in  mouth  and  hat  in  hand. 

"Meine  Herren,  I  haf  to  beg  your  pardons!  I  seek 

the  Fraulein  Ling "  he  was  beginning,  when  suddenly 

the  tall,  broad-shouldered  figure  in  the  ill-fitting  checked 
tweed  clothes  was  petrified  into  rigidity.  The  felt  hat  he 
had  civilly  removed  dropped  from  his  hand,  his  jaws 
clenched  on  his  inseparable  meerschaum.  Bolt  upright, 
crimson  to  the  hair,  and  staring  through  his  steel-rimmed 
spectacles,  he  stood  confronting  the  huge  white  letters 
that  disfigured  Miss  Ling's  brown  distemper. 

"Kreuzdonner wetter!  was  ist  dies?"  Carolan  heard  him 
mutter  in  his  own  tongue.  "  Es  ist  in  jedermanns  Mund!" 
Then  he  recovered  himself  almost  instantly,  picked  up  his 
hat,  and  gave  good-evening  in  his  stiff,  yet  civil,  way. 


XXIV 

"GOOD  EVENING!  Miss  Ling  is  out,  and  won't  be  back 
for  an  hour,"  explained  Mr.  Knewbit,  "but  if  there  was 
anything  you  were  wanting  in  a  hurry,  I'll  see  that  you 
get  it,  somehow. ' ' 

"Thanks,  thanks!"  said  Herr  von  Rosius  pleasantly. 
"So  that  I  shall  have  my  bill  within  an  hour  I  shall  need 
nothing.  Pray  inform  the  Fraulein  I  haf  just  received  a 
cable  from  my  family  in  Germany.  They  tell  me  I  am 
wanted  at  home." 

"Sorry,  sorry!"  said  Mr.  Knewbit  in  his  pouncing 
manner.  "Sudden,  sudden!  Hope  no  bad  news?" 

Von  Rosius 's  pale  blue  eyes  might  have  been  stones, 
they  were  so  hard,  and  had  so  little  expression.  He  re- 
moved and  wiped  his  glasses  with  his  silk  handkerchief, 
and  said,  carefully  replacing  them: 

"Nein,  ganz  und  gar  nicht,  but  my  mother  is  in  need  of 
me.  So  I  have  resigned  my  post  at  the  Berners  Street 
Institute  of  Languages,  and  got  my  passport  from  our 
North  German  Consul  in  your  city.  Be  so  good  to  give  my 
message  to  the  Fraulein.  I  go  upstairs  to  pack  my  trunks 
and  bags!" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  185 

Von  Rosius 's  long  legs  had  carried  him  to  the  first-floor 
before  Mr.  Knewbit  had  done  rubbing  his  ear  and  think- 
ing. When  his  sitting-room,  door  had  banged,  and  the 
kitchen  gaselier  ceased  to  vibrate  at  the  concussion,  the 
little  man  said,  looking  at  Carolan: 

"You  have  an  eye  in  your  head,  young  chap,  and  have 
lived  in  that  gentleman's  country,  and  speak  his  language. 
And  yet  the  setting  of  his  upper  lip  and  the  blank  expres- 
sion he  throwed  into  his  spectacles  when  I  put  a  plain 
question  to  him,  have  told  me  more  about  him  than  you've 
learned.  I'll  bet  you  a  ginger-ale  that  Germany  is  his 
mother,  and  he  has  been  recalled  to  serve  in  the  Reserve 
Force,  I  forget  what  they  call  it  just  now." 

"They  call  the  Reserve  the  Reserve,  but  I  expect  you 
mean  the  Landwehr,"  returned  Carolan,  wondering  at  the 
little  man's  sharpness. 

"That's  it.  Listen  to  him  singing,"  said  Mr.  Knewbit, 
as  the  first-floor  sitting-room  door  banged  open  again, 
heavy  steps  crossed  the  landing,  and  the  robust  baritone 
of  Herr  von  Rosius  trolled  forth  a  fragment  of  song: 
"Now,  if  that  might  be  anything  in  the  'Rule  Britannia* 
line,  my  ginger-ale's  as  good  as  won." 

"It's  the  Wacht  am  Rhein,"  said  P.  C.  Breagh,  return- 
ing enlightened  from  an  excursion  to  the  bottom  of  the 
kitchen  staircase,  "and  I  believe  you've  hit  the  nail  on 
the  head." 

"He  served  in  '66  he  told  me,"  said  Mr.  Knewbit,  indi- 
cating the  unseen  Von  Rosius  with  an  upward  jerk  of  his 
chin,  ' '  and  now  he 's  got  to  go  back  and  be  a  cog  or  a  screw- 
nut  somewhere  in  the  big  war-machine  you've  told  me  of. 
What  did  he  call  Service  of  the  Active  kind?  'Camping 
under  the  helmet-spike. '  We  shall  miss  him,  for  a  quieter 
and  civiler  lodger  never  wore  out  oilcloth.  Hark! — that 
was  the  hall-door.  Monsieur  Meguet's  back  uncommon 
early.  As  a  rule,  after  the  Museum  Print  Room  closes  he 
goes  to  his  club  in  Leicester  Square." 

The  French  gentleman  who  lived  on  the  second  floor  had 
ascended  the  doorsteps  simultaneously  with  Mr.  Ticking. 
Mounting  to  the  hall  on  his  way  upstairs,  attended  by  the 
ginger  Tom — no  longer  a  kitten — P.  C.  Breagh  found  them, 
surrounded  by  a  blue  haze  of  Sweet  Caporal  and  Navy  Cut, 
finishing  a  political  discussion  on  the  mat,  while  Mr. 
Mounteney,  languidly  leaning  against  the  door-post  of 


186  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  ground-floor  front-parlor,  listened  with  a  detached 
and  weary  air. 

"C'est  de  bouc  emissaire — I  tell  you  he  is  the  scape- 
goat of  a  diplomat 's  malice ! ' '  declared  the  French  gentle- 
man. "Of  himself  he  is  without  designs — unambitious! 
a  good  child,  nothing  more !  Brave  as  he  is — has  he  not 
been  trained  from  infancy  to  hardihood  and  acts  of  daring  ? 
— has  he  not  slept  with  but  a  blanket  for  covering,  and 
eaten  the  soldier's  sausage  of  pea?  .  .  .  Brave  as  he  is, 
he  dare  not  draw  upon  his  unhappy  country  the  terrible — 
the  devastating — the  exterminating  wrath  of  France!" 

The  French  gentleman  whose  profession  was  Prints  had 
spoken  loudly, — possibly  without  the  design  of  being  heard 
upon  the  first  floor. 

Now,  as  he  paused  to  wipe  his  streaming  brow  with  a 
brilliant  green  silk  handkerchief,  a  door  upon  the  landing 
immediately  above  was  suddenly  thrown  open,  and  as  a 
trunk  was  dragged  across  the  landing,  a  stave  of  the  Ger- 
man equivalent  to  "Rule,  Britannia,"  boomed  forth  in 
Herr  von  Rosius  's  powerful  baritone : 

"While  there's  a  drop  of  blood  to  run, 
While  there's  an  arm  to  hold  a  gun — 
While  there's  a  Jiand  to  wield  a  sword- — 
Brum — brum  brum  brum " 

The  German  words  were  lost  in  the  racket  accompanying 
the  violent  ejection  of  heavy  articles  from  the  bedroom. 
Comparative  calm  ensued  as  M.  Meguet  continued: 

"Disciplined,  well  drilled,  energetic,  and  brave,  the  Army 
of  France  is  unmatched  and  invincible.  Our  Emperor 
assures  us  upon  the  honor  of  a  Napoleon,  that,  equipped 
and  ready  to  the  last  buckle — to  the  final  gaiter-button,  it 
waits  but  the  signal  to  roll  on.  Its  musket  is  infinitely 
superior  to  the  Prussian  needle-gun,  that  feeble  invention 
of  an  ill-balanced  mind ! — its  artillery  is  commanded  by  a 
picked  corps  of  officers — is  enforced  by  that  terrific  weapon, 
the  mitrailleuse.  The  Army  of  Prussia  is  a  bundle  of  dry 
bones,  fastened  together — not  with  living  sinews — but  with 
rusty  wire.  The  Prussian  Monarch  is  a  tottering  panta- 
loon of  seventy-three,  crowned  with  dusty  laurels;  who 
submits  to  be  the  puppet  of  a  demon  in  human  form! 
The  Genius  of  France  is  a  divine  and  glorious  being,  whose 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  187 

soul  burns  with  the  noble  thirst  for  warlike  achievements, 
whose  blood  courses  with  the  fire  and  heat  of  unimpaired 
youth.  ..." 

From  upstairs  came  the  big  baritone,  buzzing  like  a 
gigantic  bumble-bee: 

"The  oath  is  sworn — the  .hosts  roll  on, 
In  heart  and  soul  thy  sons  are  one. 
Dear  Fatherland,  no  fear  be  thine, 
We'll  keep  our  watch,  upon  the  Shine!" 

' '  I  tell  you ! ' '  cried  M.  Meguet  passionately,  and  pitching 
his  voice  so  as  to  be  heard,  if  possible,  still  more  distinctly 
on  the  floor  above;  "France  will  cross  the  Rhine!  Her 
hosts  will  inundate  the  soil  of  Germany  like  a  vast  tidal 
wave,  and  in  one  moment  obliterate " 

Silence  had  prevailed  above  during  the  utterance  of  the 
above-recorded  sentences.  At  the  word  "obliterate,"  a 
heavy  canvas  holdall  dropped  over  the  balusters  of  the 
upper  landing,  missing  the  speaker  by  a  calculated  inch; 
and  as  the  ginger  Tom,  with  an  astonished  curse,  disap- 
peared in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen: 

"Prut!"  said  the  voice  of  Von  Rosius  from  above, 
"that  was  an  uncommonly  near  shave.  Pray  pardon,"  he 
added,  appearing  on  the  staircase,  emitting  volumes  of 
smoke  from  his  big  meerschaum.  "I  so  much  regret  the 
accident ! ' ' 

He  was  attired  in  rough  traveling-clothes,  and  wore  an 
intensely  practical  woolen  cap  with  ear-flaps,  though  the 
July  night  was  oppressively  hot.  And  his  spectacles  were 
inscrutable  as  he  gathered  up  the  boots,  slippers,  and 
clothes-brush  that  had  escaped  from  the  holdall,  leaned 
the  bulky  brown  canvas  mass  against  the  hall-wainscoting, 
and  felt  in  the  drawer  of  the  rickety  hatstand  that  never 
had  hats  on  it,  for  the  cab-whistle  that  was  wheezy  from 
overwork. 

"It  is  nothing,  Monsieur,  you  have  not  deranged  me  for 
an  instant,"  returned  M.  Meguet,  with  ominously  smiling 
bonhomie.  Then  refixing  his  late  audience  with  his  eye,  he 
went  on  as  though  the  interruption  had  never  happened: 

— "and  obliterate  from  the  face  of  the  earth  the  entire 
German  nation." 

Von  Rosius  opened  the  hall-door,  letting  in  the  sultry 


188  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

smell  of  the  hot  street.  lie  stood  upon  the  threshold,  and 
blew  for  a  four-wheeler,  one  tittering,  mocking  trill. 
M.  Meguet  continued,  quavering,  and  clutching  his  brow 
in  t'  3  character  of  the  terriiied  Hohenzollern,  and  impart- 
ing a  tremor  of  agitation  to  his  legs: 

"Is  '.'".  then,  to  be  wondered  at,"  cries  this  unhappy 
Leopol  i,  "that  the  opinion  of  Queen  Victoria  and  the 
observations  of  the  Czar  of  Russia  have  quickened  scruples 
already  existing  in  my  breast?  Will  my  royal  relatives 
wonder  that  I  say:  This  shall  not  be?  The  brand  de- 
signed to  set  a  world  on  fire  has  been  quenched  by  my 
mother's  tears,  and  the  entreaties  of  my  wife  and  infants. 
Let  M.  de  Bismarck  mount  the  Spanish  Throne,  and  adorn 
his  crafty  temples  with  this  crown  of  piercing  bayonets. 
I  withdraw  from  this  fatal  candidacy,  though  the  whole 
world  should  say " 

M.  Meguet  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  struck  the  blow 
for  which  he  had  been  saving  himself: 

— "should  say  what  the  latest  edition  of  that  admirably- 
informed  journal,  the  Evening  Gazette,  quotes  from  this 
morning's  edition  of  Le  Gaulois: 

"  'La  Prusse  cane!'  ' 

Von  Rosius  was  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  open 
door  as  the  words  hissed  past  him.  Distant  wheels  were 
rumbling  up  the  dusty  cobblestones  of  Coram  Street  from 
the  cabstand  at  the  corner  of  Russell  Square. 

"Now,  what's  the  English  of  that?"  asked  Mr.  Ticking, 
rashly. 

"Possibly,"  remarked  M.  Meguet,  with  a  sardonic  smile 
at  the  tall  figure  and  broad  shoulders  that  blocked  the 
hall-doorway,  "Herr  von  Rosius  might  be  able  to  inform 
you!" 

Von  Rosius  signaled  to  the  driver  of  the  approaching 
cab  before  he  turned.  In  his  rough,  loosely-fitting  clothes, 
he  bulked  large  and  menacing,  though  his  spectacles  were 
as  inscrutable  as  ever,  and  under  his  light  mustache  his 
excellent  teeth  showed  quite  smilingly.  He  felt  for  money 
in  his  trousers-pocket  as  he  answered  composedly: 

"With  pleasure.  It  is  a  slang  expression  used  by  the 
blackguards  of  the  lowest  quarters  of  Paris.  'Cane'  is 
to  'back  out'  or  to  'climb  down,'  as  the  Americans  would 
say.  Excuse  me!  I  go  to  pay  my  bill." 


He  nodded  slightly  as  he  passed  Ticking  and  Moun- 
teney,  and  bestowed  the  same  civility  on  P.  C.  Breagh. 
Then  his  heavy  footsteps  thundered  down  the  kitchen  stair- 
case, from  whose  hatchway  he  emerged  a  few  minutes 
later,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Knewbit,  who  had  volunteered 
to  help  with  the  luggage,  and  this  being  stacked.  f  ion  the 
cab,  their  owner  got  into  it,  and  Herr  von  Rosius,  frigidly 
shaking  hands  with  his  English  fellow-lodgers,  and  ex- 
changing a  distant  salute  with  M.  Meguet,  got  into  the 
fusty  vehicle  and  was  driven  away  to  the  triumphant 
strains  of  the  Marseillaise,  performed  by  his  racial  an- 
tagonist on  the  piano  appertaining  to  the  first-floor  sitting- 
room  he  had  a  moment  previously  vacated. 

' '  '  Prussia  climbs  down, '  ' '  murmured  Mr.  Knewbit, 
standing  before  the  inscription  on  the  kitchen  distemper. 

"With  the  'and  on  her  'elm  that  she  'as "  he  went  on 

shedding  "h's, "  as  was  his  way  when  deeply  meditative, 
"I  should  doubt  the  correctness  of  that  report.  Still,  I 
shall  advise  Maria  to  keep  them  first-floor  apartments 
vacant  a  day  or  two — in  case  Mr.  von  Rosius 's  mother 
doesn't  want  him  after  all.  .  .  .  What  does  Solomon 
say?  'Designs  are  strengthened  ~by  counsels,  and  wars  are 
to  be  managed  by  Governments.'  ' 

The  kettle  was  boiling  madly,  and  a  volume  of  steam 
was  issuing  from  the  pipe-bowl.  Mr.  Knewbit  rescued 
the  blackened  briar-root,  mechanically  filled  it,  and  looked 
for  a  light. 

There  was  a  crumpled  pale  green  paper  lying  near  his 
boot  upon  the  worn  linoleum.  He  picked  it  up,  and  saw 
that  it  was  a  cablegram  issued  by  the  North  German  Sub- 
marine Telegraph  Company,  addressed  to  Von  Rosius,  and 
containing  a  message  of  four  words : 

"Lanze  inden  Schuh,  Uhlan!    Hauptquartier,  Berlin." 

"Now,  which  shall  I  do?"  asked  Mr.  Knewbit,  scanning 
the  baffling  foreign  words  written  in  the  familiar  English 
characters.  Torn  between  conscientious  scruples  and  a 
characteristic  thirst  for  information,  the  little  man  was 
pitiable  to  see.  "Which  shall  I  do?"  he  repeated.  "Use 
this  here  for  a  pipe-light — or  show  it  to  my  young  shaver 
upstairs  ? ' ' 

Deciding  on  the  latter  course,  he  climbed  to  the  attic 
rented  by  the  young  shaver,  and  knocked  at  the  door. 


190  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

"Come  in!  .  .  .  I'm  not  working  to-night,"  said  P.  C. 
Breagh  out  of  the  darkness.  Upon  Mr.  Knewbit 's  striking 
a  match,  the  young  man,  who  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair 
before  the  venerable  davenport,  contemplating  the  dusk 
oblong  of  starry  sky  visible  above  the  chimney-pots  of 
Bernard  Street,  shook  himself  free  of  thought  as  a  setter 
shakes  off  water,  and  got  up. 

"Feel  out  of  sorts?"  asked  Mr.  Knewbit,  burning  hi* 
fingers,  and  striking  another  match  as  he  bustled  to  the 
single  bracket  over  the  narrow  wooden  mantelshelf  and 
lighted  the  gas.  "Anything  wrong?" 

"I  feel  out  of  the  swim,"  said  P.  C.  Breagh,  sitting  down 
again  astride  his  chair,  and  cupping  his  square  chin  in  a. 
fist  that  had  ink-smears  on  it,  as  he  stared  at  the  wobbling 
blue  flame  that  presently  spread  itself  into  a  yellow  fan  of 
radiance,  "and  hipped  and  beastly.  I've  no  right  to 
quarrel  with  my  bread-and-butter,  but  I'm  doing  it  to- 
night. The  fact  that  I'm  a  Nobody  doesn't  prevent  me 
from  wanting  to  wind  up  as  Somebody.  Putting  the  case 
roughly,  that's  what's  wrong." 

"This  here  house,"  said  Mr.  Knewbit  in  his  pouncing 
manner,  "belonged  to  a  man  who  was  a  Nobody,  if  you 
like.  A  Master  Seaman,  who  used  to  tramp  it  to  his  ship 
at  Wapping,  and  pick  up  the  outcast  babies  lying  in  the 
kennels,  and  roll  'em  in  his  big  boat-cloak  and  carry  'em 
home.  Them  foundlings  was  nobodies — yet  two  of  'em 
lived  to  be  Lord  Mayors  of  London.  Old  Captain  Coram, 
who  founded  the  Hospital,  died  neglected  and  forgotten, 
but  nobody  looking  at  his  tomb  in  the  Chapel  yonder  will 
deny  he  wound  up  as  Somebody  at  last!" 

P.  C.  Breagh  yawned  hugely  and  rumpled  his  hair  dis- 
contentedly. 

"The  chap  you're  talking  of  was  a  philanthropist,  and  I 
want — I'm  not  ashamed  to  want — to  build  a  career  for 
myself  instead  of  founding  a  charity-school.  I  want — your 
own  talk  has  made  me  want! — to  get  out  of  this  little 
squirrel-cage — even  though  there  are  nuts  and  sugar  and 
bread  in  it  all  the  year  round.  And" — his  scowl  was  por- 
tentous— "if  this  Hohenzollern  hadn't  backed  out  of  the 
Spanish  Crown  affair,  when  France  cockadoodled,  and 
there  had  been  a  racket  on  the  Rhine  frontier — I'd  just 
have  rummaged  round  to  find  an  editor  who'd  be  ass 
enough  to  pay  a  raw  hand  for  letters  sent  from  the  seat 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  191 

of  hostilities — and  if  I  couldn't  have  found  one — and  of 
course  I  couldn't — when  seasoned  men  are  as  plentiful 
as  nutshells  in  the  Adelphi  gallery — I'd  have  gone  to  the 
war  as  a  camp-follower — and  got  experience  that  way!" 

Said  Mr.  Knewbit,  turning  and  scanning  the  resolute, 
dogged  young  face,  with  black  eyes  that  twinkled  like  jet 
beads : 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  that  seasoned  Correspondents 
are  plentiful.  There  are  thousands  who 're  ready  to  sit  in 
an  office  behind  the  Compositors'  Room,  and  write  eye- 
witnesses' accounts  of  thrilling  charges.  But  them  that 
are  ready  to  go  out  with  a  Permit  and  get  attached  to  a 
Staff;  them  that  are  ready  and  willing  to  march  with  an 
Army  on  the  War  path — starve  when  there  are  no  rations, 
lie  in  the  fields  in  the  sopping  rain  when  no  roof's  to  be 
had  to  cover  'em — write  accounts  of  the  day's  fighting 
under  shell-fire,  and  cheerfully  get  killed  if  a  bullet  comes 
their  way  in  the  course  o'  things! — you  can't  call  the 
journalistic  profession  overstocked  with  them.  If  you  do, 
just  name  me  one  such  man  for  each  finger  of  these  two 
big  hands  of  mine.  I  defy  you  to,  so  there!" 

They  were  very  big  hands,  and  as  Mr.  Knewbit  held 
them  up  side  by  side,  with  the  palms  toward  his  young 
shaver,  they  not  undistantly  resembled  a  pair  of  decent- 
sized  flatfish. 

"To  become  a  man  like  one  of  these — and  they're  the 
Pick  of  the  British  Nation, ' '  said  Mr.  Knewbit,  ' '  you  must 
be  pitched  into  the  midst  of  things  neck  and  crop,  and  left 
to  sink  or  swim.  I  compliment  you  when  I  say  that  I 
believe  you  one  of  the  swimming  kind.  Now,  supposing 
War  broke  out  after  all — how  much  Hard  Cash  would  you 
want  to  carry  you  through  a  Campaign?" 

' '  I  've  got  five  pounds  put  away  in  the  Post-Office  Savings 
Bank,"  returned  P.  C.  Breagh,  after  a  moment's  mental 
calculation,  "and  I  believe  I  could  manage  if  I  had  an- 
other fifteen." 

"Making  Twenty  Pound,"  said  Mr.  Knewbit,  biting  a 
finger  thoughtfully.  He  threw  the  finger  out  at  P.  C. 
Breagh,  and  his  black  eyes  twinkled  more  than  ever.  "For 
Fifteen  Pound  down  would  you  undertake  to  write  and 
send  home  to  the  person  advancing  you  the  money,  for — 
say  four  weeks  (that'd  give  two  nations  comfortable  time 
to  have  it  out  and  settle  their  differences  in  a  Christian- 


192  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

like  manner,  with  a  little  burning  of  powder,  and  blood- 
shed)— three  letters  per  week,  describing  in  a  style  read- 
able by  plain,  ordinary,  everyday  people — what  you've 
seen,  and  heard — and  felt — and  smelt — don 't  forget  that ! ' ' 
said  Mr.  Knewbit,  shaking  his  finger  warningly  at  P.  C. 
Breagh,  "on  the  march,  or  in  the  bivouac,  or  while  the 
fighting  was  going  on?" 

P.  C.  Breagh  would  have  broken  in  here,  but  the  held-up 
finger  stopped  him  on  the  verge  of  utterance : 

"Avoid  sham  Technicality,"  said  Mr.  Knewbit  sternly. 
"Don't  let  me  have  stuff  like:  'Sir — On  the  morning  of 
the  — th  the  Field-Marshal  von  Blitherem — or  General  Par- 
lezvous — shifted  the  left  wing  of  his  Division  nearer  to  his 
center,  and  shortly  after  nine  o'clock  the  forces  under  com- 
mand of  What'shisname  and  Thingummy  began  to  move 
in  column  of  so  and  so.  A  light  'aze  lay  upon  the  fields 
— the  droppin'  fire  of  the  enemy's  Artillery  made  itself 
felt  at  the  Advance  Posts  nor'  and  nor'-west.'  Nor  don't 
you  ladle  me  out  sentimental  slumgullion,  after  the  fashion 
of — 'All  is  Peace,  while  I  pen  these  'asty  lines  and  sip 
my  morning  coffee.  Yet  ere  the  radiant  beams  of  Sol 
will  have  dried  the  pearly  dew  from  these  smiling  fields, 
the  'ideous  roar  of  cannon  and  the  withering  burst  of 
shrapnel  will  have  devastated  and  blighted  Nature's 
choicest  'andiwork,  and  Man,  that  noblest  work  of  the 
Creative  Power — will  be  engaged  in  the  'orrible  task  of 
destroying  fellow-men  wrought  in  the  image  of  hisself.' 
For  the  Lord  is  a  Man  of  War — according  to  the  Scrip- 
tures," said  Mr.  Knewbit,  ignoring  P.  C.  Breagh 's  amuse- 
ment. "And  it  is  written  that  He  shall  overthrow  King- 
doms and  break  the  scepters  of  Kings,  and  cause  that 
nations  shall  be  swallowed  up  in  nations."  He  added, 
with  a  sharp  change  to  his  business  tone,  "And  bad  or 
good,  these  letters  of  yours  are  mine,  to  burn  or  print  as 
I  think  fit  and  necessary?  All  right!  I'll  draw  up  a 
little  agreement — and  whenever  you  choose  to  sign  it — 
there 's  your  Fifteen  Pounds. — Lord !  to  think  I  should  live 
to  send  out  a  Special  Correspondent,  all  to  my  own  cheek! 
It's — a — a  luxury  I  should  never  have  anticipated." 

"The  Correspondent  won't  be  much  use  without  a  war 
to  correspond  about,"  said  Carolan,  growing  weary  of 
Mr.  Knewbit 's  humor.  "And  I  suppose  there  won't  be 
one  now." 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  193 

"We  shall  know  for  certain,  I  dare  say,  when  you've 
thrown  your  eye  over  this  paper  here,"  said  his  patron, 
producing  a  crumpled  oblong  of  pale  green.     "That  it's 
addressed  to  another  person  ain't  your  business.     I  mean 
that  person  no  injury — and  naturally  no  more  don't  you. 
What  you're  asked  to  do  is  to  English  these  words  for 
me."    He  handed  over  the  cablegram  and  expanded  him- 
self to  hear.    P.  C.  Breagh  read  with  lifting  eyebrows : 
"Lanze  inden  8chuh,  Uhlan!  Hauptquartier,  Berlin." 
"And    what's   that   mean?      English    it,    can't   you?" 
snapped  Mr.  Knewbit,  rabid  with  curiosity. 
P.  C.  Breagh  Englished  it  as  requested: 
"Lance  in  rest,  Hussar.     Headquarters,  Berlin." 

Said  Mr.  Knewbit  later  on,  warming  his  calves  despite 
the  heat  of  the  weather,  at  the  low  coke  fire  in  the  kitchen 
register,  while  Miss  Ling  bustled  about  clearing  away  the 
supper-cloth : 

"That  there  cable  was  received  in  London  at  six- thirty 
this  evening,  and  the  Evening  Gazette  Meguet  quoted  from 
was  the  latest  issue — about  eleven  a.  m.  I  shall  go  down 
early  to  the  office  to-night!" 

His  Excellency  Field-Marshal  General  Count  von  Moltke 
had  said  that  day,  having  dropped  in  at  the  Berlin  Head- 
quarters of  the  Reserve  Landwehr  for  the  purpose  of 
perusing  certain  lists  sent  from  London  a  few  days  pre- 
viously by  the  Teutonic  gentleman  who  taught  English 
to  German  immigrants  at  the  Institute  in  Berners 
Street,  W.: 

"It  was  an  excellent  idea  of  Colonel  von  Rosius  to  fish 
for  missing  Prussian  conscripts  and  deserters  from  our 
Landwehr  in  the  character  of  a  teacher  of  English  to 
foreigners  in  London.  He  has  netted  in  a  year,  two  thou- 
sand privates  and  non-commissioned  officers,  would-be 
waiters,  clerks,  porters,  valets,  and  tradesmen — men  of 
all  ages,  from  forty  to  nineteen.  A  useful  officer — a  very 
intelligent  officer.  We  shall  make  up  much  leakage  in 
adopting  his  plan!" 

In  the  dimly  gaslit  murkiness  of  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning  Mr.  Knewbit  sallied  forth  to  business,  carrying 
his  hat  in  his  hand  as  he  went,  for  the  weather  was  oppres- 


194  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

sive,  yet  walking  at  his  usual  red-hot  pace,  and  making 
as  much  noise  with  his  boots  as  three  ordinary  men. 

"I'm  not  in  my  usual  mood  for  Nature,"  he  said,  on 
reaching  the  bottom  of  gray,  grimy  Endell  Street,  "and  I 
flatter  myself  on  being  tough  enough — at  a  pinch — to  do 
without  my  customary  dose  of  fresh  air.  So  I'll  twist 
down  Long  Acre  and  take  the  Drury  Lane  short-cut.  Not 
that  there  is  any  special  reason  for  hurry  to-night." 

Yet  hurry  seemed  abroad  to  an  observation  as  strictly 
professional  as  Mr.  Knewbit  's.  Cabs  rattled  over  the  stones 
of  the  Strand,  dashing  Fleet  Streetward ;  panting  mes- 
sengers clutching  envelopes  dived  under  the  horses'  noses; 
hurried  pedestrians  carrying  little  black  bags  jostled  Mr. 
Knewbit  every  moment;  windows  of  offices  glowed  like 
furnaces,  and  the  champing  of  steam-engines  made  a  con- 
tinual beat  upon  the  ear. 

"The  last  report  from  the  late  Debate  in  the  Commons 
is  in  by  now, ' '  said  Mr.  Knewbit,  looking  at  his  stout  silver 
timekeeper,  under  a  gas-lamp,  "and  Gladstone  'as  made 
short  work  of  that  last  batch  of  Bills  for  the  Session.  Fee 
Fo  Fum  was  nothing  to  'im.  Merchant  Shipping,  Ballot, 
Turnpikes,  Inclosures — and  a  baker 's  dozen  of  Scotch  Bills 
'ave  been  offered  up  in  a  regular  'ecatomb,  and  anathemas 
'ave  been  'urled  at  the  'eads  of  the  Opposition  with  the 
usual  inspiritin'  effect.  The  gentleman  who  is  a-trying  to 
put  a  stop  to  the  employment  of  young  children  in  Fac- 
tories and  Workshops  'as  been  put  down  with  the  powerful 
argument  that  the  kids  like  their  work,  and  would  get  up 
at  four  in  the  morning  to  do  it  for  nothink  if  they  wasn't 
paid  for  it.  "What  a  headin'  I  could  make  out  of  that! 
The  stoker  who  was  drivin'  the  engine  to  give  the  reg'lar 
driver  a  rest  when  the  Carlisle  Railway  Disaster  happened 
has  been  released  without  a  stain  on  'is  character,  and 
complimented  by  the  Committee  on  his  'umanity  into  the 
bargain.  Mr.  Bright  is  better,  and  will  wake  up  the  Board 
of  Trade  presently.  That's  all  we  shall  have  for  our  bill 
of  fare  this  issue,  includin'  the  City  Correspondence, 
Sportin'  Intelligence,  Markets,  Stocks,  and  state  of  the 
weather,  Railway  Shares,  Law  and  Police  reports,  and 
Births,  Deaths,  and  Marriages,  and  not  leavin'  out  the 
new  midsummer  drama  at  Sadler's  Wells  Theater  or  the 
letters  written  by  gentlemen  with  grievances,  signing  their- 
selves  ' Pater-f amilias, '  or  'Englishman,'  or  'Verax,'  who 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  195 

have  been  sauced  by  hackney-cab  drivers  or  over-rated  by 
the  Income  Tax,  or  overcharged  for  a  cold-mutton,  lettuce- 
salad  and  cheese  luncheon  in  a  country  inn.  That's  all, 
and  no  more  than  bound  to  be !  And  yet  I  feel  as  if  some- 
thing was  going  to  happen.  I'm  not  due  in  my  Depart- 
ment for  another  hour.  I  shall  do  a  bit  of  a  Look  Round." 

He  entered  by  the  swing-doors  of  the  Fleet  Street  gen- 
eral entrance,  meeting  a  rush  of  hot  air,  powerfully  flav- 
ored with  gas  and  machine-oil,  and  was  instantly  borne 
off  his  feet  by  an  avalanche  of  telegraph- agency  mes- 
sengers in  oilskin  caps  and  capes.  The  place  was  ablaze 
with  gas,  shirt-sleeved  men  and  grubby  boys  ran  hither 
and  thither  like  agitated  insects.  The  walls  shook  with 
the  panting  of  engines  getting  up  steam.  Perspiring 
printer-foremen  shot  in  and  out  of  little  baking-hot  glass 
offices  where  sub-editors  were  cutting  down  heaps  of 
* 'flimsy,"  ramming  sheets  of  copy  on  files,  correcting 
proofs,  and  curtailing  pars.  .  .  . 

Said  Mr.  Knewbit,  fanning  himself  on  a  landing  after 
climbing  a  great  many  iron-shod  staircases,  and  passing  in 
and  out  of  a  great  many  swing-doors  emitting  puffs  of  the 
hot  gas-and-oil-perfumed  air  already  mentioned,  and  lead- 
ing to  glass-roofed  departments,  where  shirt-sleeved  and 
aproned  men  labored  for  dear  life,  and  huge  steam-power 
machines  at  high  pressure  trembled  and  panted  like  ele- 
phants gone  mad : 

"The  Foreign  Telegrams  are  in  type  and  the  Leaders 
are  in  the  chases.  The  forms  are  in  the  machines,  and  in 
another  minute  the  word  will  be  given  to  Print.  Halloa! 
Beg  pardon,  sir !  I  'm  sure  I  didn  't  see  you ! ' ' 

For  a  little  red-hot,  perspiring  gentleman  had  leaped  up 
the  staircase  like  a  goat  of  the  mountain,  had  charged  at 
the  swing-doors  immediately  behind  Knewbit,  collided  with 
him,  sworn  at  him  breathlessly — and  vanished  with  a  double 
thud  of  the  swing-doors,  and  a  shout  of  "Matheson!" 

A  clang  of  voices  seemed  to  answer  him,  there  was  a 
brief  minute's  delay,  ages  as  it  seemed  to  the  waiting  Mr. 
Knewbit;  then  the  mad  elephants,  unchained,  began  to 
heave  and  stamp  and  snort.  And — at  the  rate  of  twenty- 
five  thousand  an  hour,  began  to  roll,  from  the  great 
cylinders  of  damp  paper,  the  day's  issue  of  the  Early 
Wire. 

They  rolled  out — as  similar  cylinders  were  rolling  up 


196  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

and  down  Fleet  Street  and  all  the  world  over,  the  Report 
of  the  late  Debate  in  the  Commons,  the  list  of  Bills  be- 
headed by  the  Prime  Minister,  the  ineffectual  efforts  of 
the  gentleman  who  was  trying  to  stop  the  Factory  Owners 
from  employing  Infant  Labor,  the  result  of  the  Com- 
mission of  Inquiry  upon  the  Carlisle  Railway  Disaster,  and 
all  the  News  of  the  day.  And  in  a  space  reserved  for  the 
Latest  Foreign  Intelligence  appeared  a  telegram  sent  from 
Ems  by  the  King  of  Prussia,  as  condensed  at  a  dinner- 
council  of  three  convivials,  in  the  Wilhelm  Strasse,  Berlin. 

And  all  the  world  read  it  and  commented,  as  British 
stocks  went  up  and  Continental  Stocks  played  seesaw: 

"The  King  of  Prussia  refuses  to  receive  the  French 
Ambassador!  .  .  .  This  most  certainly  means  WAR!" 


XXV 

PERCHED  on  the  wall, — hung  with  an  old-world  Chinese 
paper,  figured  with  sprays  of  bamboo,  pagodas,  bridges, 
mandarins  promenading  under  yellow  umbrellas,  and  fair 
Celestials  reclining  on  the  banks  of  a  meandering,  bright 
blue  stream — the  German  fly  of  Mr.  Knewbit's  envy  would 
have  reaped  scant  information  from  the  conversation  of 
the  three  men  sitting  at  the  dinner-table,  for  the  reason 
that  they  conversed  in  English — perhaps  for  privacy's 
sake. 

The  apartment,  not  ordinarily  used  as  a  dining-room, 
possessed  three  sets  of  folding-doors,  and  beyond  a  sofa 
and  twelve  heavy  chairs,  upholstered  with  a  Chinese  bro- 
cade matching  the  paper,  was  scantily  furnished.  The 
table  plate  was  solid  and  handsome.  A  pair  of  huge 
silver-gilt  wine-coolers  displayed  a  goodly  array  of  cham- 
pagne bottles,  a  cellar-basket  with  rows  of  horizontal 
wicker-nests  contained  claret,  Burgundy,  and  Rhine  wine. 
The  second  course  was  under  discussion,  but  the  servants, 
after  placing  the  dishes  on  the  table,  had  withdrawn.  By 
a  bell  kept  on  a  dumb-waiter  at  the  host's  elbow,  bearing 
sauces,  clean  plates,  spare  glasses,  bread  of  white  and 
black,  and  other  requisites,  the  attendants  could  be  sum- 
moned at  need. 

The  hostess's  chair  at  the  table-head  was  vacant.     The 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  197 

two  guests'  places  were  laid  on  the  right  and  left  hand  of 
the  host.  All  three  men  were  in  uniform,  two  were  well 
stricken  in  years;  and  Time  had  not  left  sufficient  locks 
among  them  to  furnish  a  wig-maker  with  material  for 
covering  a  bald  patch. 

Also,  they  were  men  of  whom  the  world  had  heard  much 
already,  and  was,  before  the  ending  of  the  year,  to  hear  a 
great  deal  more. 

The  tall,  heavily-built  man  of  sixty-seven,  in  the  uniform 
of  a  General  of  Division,  who  sat  upon  the  host's  right 
hand,  boasting  a  hair-tuft  above  either  ear,  a  pair  of 
shaggy  eyebrows,  and  a  bristling  mustache  dyed  to  savage 
blackness,  any  intelligent  Berliner  would  have  recognized 
as  Von  Eoon,  the  Prussian  Minister  of  War;  while  the 
mild-looking  veteran  of  seventy  who  opposed  him,  display- 
ing the  crimson  badge  of  the  Great  General  Staff  upon  a 
plain  dark  close-buttoned  military  frock,  with  the  ribbons 
of  a  dozen  decorations  showing  in  a  narrow  line  on  his  left 
breast  and  the  coveted  Cross  of  the  Ked  Eagle  of  the 
First  Class  hanging  at  the  black  regulation  stock  that 
clipped  his  unstarched  linen  collar,  would  have  been 
claimed  by  the  veriest  street  urchin  as  "Our  Moltke!" 

You  saw  in  this  hale,  lean,  stooping  Staff  Officer,  who 
covered  a  scalp  as  bare  as  a  new-born  babe's  with  an 
obvious  auburn  wig,  the  first  soldier  of  the  day, 'the  past- 
master  in  war-craft.  His  fine,  transparent  beaky  profile, 
tight  mouth,  clear  light  eyes,  set  in  a  net  of  innumerable 
knowing  little  wrinkles,  and  the  cross-hatching  of  tiny 
scarlet  veins  that  made  his  hollow  cheeks  ruddy  as  Cornish 
apples,  might  have  belonged  to  some  aged,  ascetic  Cardinal, 
or  venerable  Professor  of  Science,  rather  than  to  Baron 
Helmuth  Carl  Bernhard  von  Moltke,  General,  Field- 
Marshal,  and  Chief  of  the  Great  General  Staff  of  the 
Prussian  Army;  whose  heraldic  motto,  Erst  wdgen  dann 
wagen  summarizes  his  strategical  policy ;  whose  conduct  of 
the  Danish  War  of  '64  and  the  Austrian  War  of  '66  had 
placed  Prussia  in  the  forefront  as  a  military  nation,  under 
whose  banner  were  soon  to  gather  the  Confederated  Ger- 
man States. 

Questioned  as  to  the  identity  of  the  man  at  the  head  of 
the  table,  the  long-limbed,  heavily  molded,  powerfully 
built  personage  of  five-and-fifty,  attired  in  the  undress- 
uniform  of  a  Colonel  of  White  Cuirassiers,  and  wearing 


198  THE    MAN    OF,   IRON 

the  Order  of  Commander  of  the  Red  Eagle,  the  citizen 
would  most  likely  have  scowled,  the  street-boy  spat  forth 
some  unsavory  epithet,  tacked  on  to  a  name  that  was 
destined  to  be  inscribed  upon  the  era  in  divers  mediums, 
inclusive  of  marble  and  iron,  brass  and  gold  and  silver; 
lead  and  fire;  bright  steel  and  red  blood. 

For  this  was  the  Minister  to  whom  diplomats,  Parlia- 
mentary orators,  and  political  leader-writers  referred  when 
they  mentioned  Prussia;  the  accursed  of  Ultramontane,, 
the  abhorred  of  Socialists.  Walking  alone  through  the 
streets,  as,  indeed,  he  loved  to  do,  his  keen  eye  and  huge 
physical  strength  had  saved  him,  ere  now,  from  the 
assassin's  bullet  or  knife.  And  you  could  not  look  upon 
him  without  recognizing  a  Force,  all-potent  for  good  or 
all-dominant  in  evil,  an  enemy  to  be  execrated  or  a  leader 
to  be  adored. 

The  massive,  high-domed  head  was  scantily  covered,  save 
for  a  grayish  lock  or  so  above  either  temple,  and  a  thin 
thatching  behind  the  finely  shaped,  sagacious  ears.  The 
eyebrows  were  thick — of  gray  mixed  with  darkish  brown; 
the  luxuriant  brown-gray  mustache  covering  the  large, 
mobile,  sarcastic  mouth,  grew  heavily  as  any  trooper's. 
The  short,  straight  nose  was  rounded  at  the  end  like  the 
point  of  a  broadsword.  And  in  the  indomitable,  vital 
regard  of  the  blue  eyes,  partly  hidden  under  thick  and 
level  lids,  you  felt  the  master-mind,  as  they  coldly  con- 
sidered some  question  of  finance  or  diplomacy,  or  blazed 
challenge  and  defiance,  scorn  and  irony.  And  in  the 
sagging  orbital  pouches,  as  in  the  puffy  jowl,  you  read 
the  unmistakable  signs  of  bygone  orgies,  deep  potations, 
marvelous  vital  powers  taxed  to  the  utmost  in  the  past 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  as  by  present  indefatigable,  unsleeping 
labors  with  brain,  voice,  and  pen  in  the  service  of  Throne 
and  State. 

The  table-talk  dealt  chiefly,  at  first,  with  culinary  and 
gastronomical  matters.  Asparagus  soup  iced  and  a  clear 
soup  with  vermicelli  had  preceded  the  course  of  fish,  placed 
on  the  table  by  the  servants,  who  had  then  been  dismissed. 
A  huge  dish  of  Waldbach  trout  with  green  sauce  and  an- 
other, as  capacious,  of  crayfish  stewed  in  cream  with  mush- 
rooms, vanished  before  a  double  onslaught  on  the  part  of 
the  War  Minister  and  the  Chancellor,  the  Chief  of  the 
General  Staff  partaking  sparingly,  as  was  his  wont. 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  199 

Said  his  host,  smiling  and  setting  down  an  empty  wine 
goblet : 

"You  eat  nothing,  Herr  Baron  Field-Marshal,  whereas 
I,  who  come  of  a  family  of  great  eaters,  and  His  Excellency, 
who  boasts  a  similarly  inherited  capacity,  have  taken  twice 
of  each  dish." 

"Thanks,  thanks,  dear  Count,"  said  Moltke  mildly, 
glancing  downward  at  the  well-marked  hollow  behind  his 
middle  buttons ;  ' '  but  I  do  not  like  to  overload  my  stomach, 
particularly  at  my  time  of  life." 

"Being  aware  of  Your  Excellency's  objection  to  dishes 
that  are  heavy,"  the  Chancellor  continued  gravely,  but 
still  smiling,  ' '  I  took  pains  to  select  a  menu  of  light,  easily 
digested  things.  What  are  three  or  four  dozens  of  oysters 
at  the  commencement  of  a  dinner?" 

Von  Roon  agreed,  in  a  hoarse  bass,  that  set  the  chande- 
lier-glasses vibrating : 

"  Or  a  few  half-pound  trout,  or  a  helping  or  so  of  stewed 
crayfish?  Mere  nothings — to  a  strong  digestion." 

"Mine  cannot  be  strong,"  the  great  strategist  remarked 
modestly,  ' '  for  I  find  that  an  over-plentiful  meal  oppresses 
the  brain,  and  hinders  steady  thought." 

Said  the  Chancellor,  filling  from  a  long-necked  bottle 
one  of  the  three  large  crystal  goblets  that  served  him  as 
wine-glasses,  emptying  it  at  a  draught  and  setting  it 
down: 

"Hah!  Were  that  known  in  a  certain  high  quarter  at 
Paris,  what  a  cargo  of  delicacies  you  would  presently 
receive  from  the  Maison  Chevet!" 

Von  Roon's  big  voice  came  in: 

"Was  not  Chevet  the  Parisian  purveyor  who  supplied 
the  banker-minister  Lafitte  with  fish  for  a  Dieppe  dinner 
in  the  time  of  the  French  Monarchy?" 

"So!"  The  Chancellor,  holding  his  napkin  delicately 
in  both  hands,  dried  the  wine  from  his  mustache,  and 
added,  turning  his  great,  slightly  bloodshot  eyes  upon 
the  interrogator.  "And  who  is  now  chief  caterer  for  the 
Emperor  Napoleon  the  Third."  He  added,  glancing  back 
at  Moltke,  and  observing  that  his  glass  stood  unemptied: 
"Since  Your  Excellency  will  not  eat,  let  me  recommend 
you  the  wine,  which  is  of  special  quality.  Not  only  Riides- 
heim,  but  good  Riidesheim.  Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

The  veteran's  clear  eyes  became  mere  slits  in  the  mass 


200  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

of  puckered  wrinkles.  He  pushed  back  his  auburn  peruke, 
showing  his  high-arched  temples,  and  laughed,  revealing 
gums  as  healthy  as  a  child's,  and  still  accommodating 
three  or  four  staunch  old  grinders  inclined  at  various 
angles,  like  ancient  apple-tree  stumps. 

"Nit,,  nu!  You  are  twitting  me  with  my  candor  to 
Sultan  Mahmoud  in  1835 ;  but  what  else  could  I  say  when 
Chosref  Pasha  intimated  that  His  Sublimity  required  my 
opinion?  Directly  I  tasted  his  wretched  wine,  I  knew 
some  rogue  had  sold  him  an  inferior  brand,  and  thus  I 
told  him  honestly:  'It  is  Riidesheim,  Your  Majesty,  but  it 
is  not  good  Riidesheim!'  And  with  the  first  of  the  boxes 
of  tobacco  and  cigarettes  that  came  from  Constantinople 
after  my  return  to  Germany,  I  received  the  message  that 
the  tutun  was  not  only  Turkish  tutun,  but  good  Turkish 
tutun."  He  drank  off  his  wine,  ending:  "And  so  my 
nephews  say  it  is,  for  I  smoke  neither  cigarettes  nor 
pipes. ' ' 

' '  I  smoke  pipes, ' '  said  the  Chancellor,  stretching  a  white, 
muscular  hand  toward  the  bell  on  the  dumb-waiter, 
"when  my  doctor  prohibits  cigars."  He  added:  "Pipes 
of  all  materials  and  descriptions — one  sort  excepted.  I 
have  no  doubt  Your  Excellency  could  give  it  a  name." 

The  War  Minister,  pondering,  knotted  his  heavy  tufted 
eyebrows,  and  presently  blew  out  his  cheeks  as  a  man  may 
when  the  jest  baffles  his  wit.  The  Field-Marshal  began  to 
laugh,  a  gentle  chuckle  that  began  by  agitating  his  lean 
abdomen,  and  shaking  his  bowed  but  vigorous  shoulders 
before  it  widened  his  mouth  into  a  slit  curved  gaily  at  the 
corners,  and  squeezed  tears  of  merriment  out  of  his 
puckered  eyes. 

"I'll  wager  half  a  pfennig  I  will  name  it  at  the  first 
guess!  You  mean  the  Calumet  of  Peace!" 

Von  Roon  barked  out  a  laugh.  The  Chancellor  nodded, 
smiling.  Then  two  middle-aged,  grave-looking  male  ser- 
vants in  plain  black  entered  with  the  third  course,  and  the 
faces  of  the  diners  underwent  a  curious  change.  They 
were  more  suave,  and  all  expression  seemed  as  though  it 
had  been  wiped  from  them.  Until,  following  on  the  heels 
of  the  servants  (who  brought  the  entrees} ,  there  appeared 
a  colossal  boarhound,  dark  tawny  in  color,  with  black 
pointings,  short,  rounded  ears,  massive  chest,  square 
muzzle,  and  red-rimmed  eyes.  Fixing  these  fierce  orbs 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  201 

upon  his  master  with  an  affection  proved  not  altogether 
disinterested  by  the  copious  dribbling  of  his  jaws,  the 
great  brute  sat  upright  at  his  left  hand,  flogged  the  carpet 
with  his  heavy  tail,  and  saluted  the  placing  of  the  dishes 
on  the  table  with  three  gruff  barks. 

"Aha,  Tyras!" 

"Hey,  then,  Tyras!  So  they  have  cut  short  your  fur- 
lough, boy!" 

"He  would  tell  you,  like  that  sergeant  of  infantry  who 
was  made  postman  of  a  country  district  after  the  war  of 
'66,  and  at  whom  the  illiterate  population — who  never  got 
anything  but  bad  news  or  dunning  letters — used  to  shoot 
as  a  mild  hint  to  keep  away  altogether,  that  all  the  days 
are  field-days  to  him.  Speaking  as  a  dog  with  a  master 
who  walks  when  he  does  not  ride,  and  must  be  waited  for 
when  he  is  neither  riding  nor  walking. ' ' 

The  Chancellor,  smiling,  looked  at  the  huge  brute,  which 
rose  and  laid  its  massive  jowl  entreatingly  upon  his  chair- 
arm,  and  receiving  no  immediate  return  in  caress,  lobbed 
a  heavy  forepaw  pettishly  upon  the  tablecloth.  A  chased 
silver-gilt  salt-cellar,  in  the  shape  of  a  Bavarian  peasant- 
girl  carrying  two  milk-pails,  toppled,  and  might  have 
fallen  to  the  floor,  but  that  the  Field-Marshal  caught  it 
dexterously,  though  without  being  able  to  prevent  the  salt 
being  spilt. 

' '  No  harm  done.  See ! ' '  He  triumphantly  set  the  milk- 
maid in  her  place  again:  "Only  the  salt  is  spilled  upon 
the  cloth!" 

"Now,  if  Tyras  were  superstitious!"  commented  the 
host,  as  a  servant  hastened  to  repair  the  damage  with  the 
aid  of  a  napkin  and  a  porcelain  dessert-plate,  "he  would 
be  convinced  that  Madame  Tyras  and  her  sons  were  not 
doing  as  well  as  might  be  hoped." 

"The  bitch  has  pupped,  then?"  said  Von  Roon  as  a 
trio  of  corks  exploded;  and  the  servants,  having  carried 
round  the  dishes,  placed  them  on  the  table,  set  an  open 
bottle  of  champagne,  dewy  from  the  ice,  and  enveloped  in 
a  damask  napkin,  at  the  right  of  each  diner,  and  noise- 
lessly quitted  the  Chinese  room. 

As  the  door  shut,  the  Chancellor  continued,  responding 
to  Roon's  question  with  a  nod,  and  looking  at  the  Chief 
of  the  Great  General  Staff: 

"However,  Tyras  is  not  one  of  those  nervous  sires  who 


202  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

rend  heaven  and  earth  with  outcries  if  danger  threatens 
one  of  their  offspring.  The  Pomeranian  breed  are  possibly 
less  nervous  than  the  strain  at  Sigmaringen.  I  think 
Prince  Antony " 

Blurted  out  the  Field-Marshal,  bolting  a  mouthful  of 
cutlet  and  crimsoning  to  the  edges  of  his  wig  with  sudden 
anger:  "May  the  great  devil  fly  away  with  that  pompous 
old  sheep  's-head ! ' ' 

"It  was  not  without  reason,"  said  the  Chancellor,  with- 
out slackening  in  his  onslaught  upon  an  entree  of  duckling 
stewed  with  olives,  "that  I  arranged  for  us  three  to  dine 
without  the  servants.  Did  I  not  foresee  that  the  hot 
blood  of  the  warlike  youth  would  effervesce  in  some  such 
expression  as  that  I  have  just  heard ! ' ' 

Said  the  old  man,  still  flushed,  but  laughing,  and  sipping 
at  a  bumper  of  dry  Sillery: 

"He  is  a  sheep's-head,  and  a  pompous  one!  He  nego- 
tiates with  Prim,  as  head  of  the  Hohenzollern  family,  quite 
forgetting  the  King,  it  would  appear!  He  is  very  well 
pleased — he  thinks  the  place  will  suit  his  son  capitally! 
He  sends  him  on  second  thoughts  to  ask  the  King  if  he 
does  not  think  so.  Then  when  France  hurries  her  Am- 
bassador to  Ems  to  inform  the  King,  who  has  not  said 
'Ay'  or  'Nay'  in  the  matter,  that  she  will  not  tolerate  a 
Prince  of  Prussia  on  the  Throne  of  Spain,  he  writes  to  ' 
the  King  saying  that  he  is  much  impressed  by  the  turn 
things  are  taking  at  Paris,  and  though  he  thinks  he  can- 
not in  decency  break  off  the  affair,  perhaps  the  King  will 
do  it  for  him!  Meanwhile  Prince  Leopold,  who  is  the 
chief  person  concerned — where  withdrawal  or  acceptance 
is  in  question — has  quitted  Ems  and  gone  where  you 
please.  .  .  .  Not  to  his  parents'  country  castle  of  Sig- 
maringen, but  to  the  Tyrol.  .  .  .  Now  why  to  the  Tyrol? 
This  marching  and  countermarching — with  no  definite 
purpose  in  it,  makes  my  blood  boil.  Phew!" 

And  really  the  perspiration  -fairly  bubbled  from  the 
pores  of  the  old  warrior,  as  he  took  off  his  auburn  peruke 
and  mopped  his  dripping  head  and  face  with  a  large  white 
handkerchief. 

The  Chancellor,  who  had  been  discussing  a  second  help- 
ing of  the  dish  before  him,  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork 
upon  their  silver-gilt  supporters,  unfastened  a  hook  of  his 


,THE    MAN   OF   IRON  203 

undress  frock,  and  said,  withdrawing  a  small  roll  of  tissue 
papers  and  separating  one  thin  penciled  sheet  from  the 
rest: 

"There  is  some  reason  for  the  Prince's  agitation.  This 
morning  a  telegram  in  cipher — of  which  this  is  a  fair  tran- 
script— was  dispatched  from  Sigmaringen  to  Olozaga,  the 
Spanish  Ambassador  at  Paris.  It  conveys  the  intimation 
that  Prince  Antony  withdraws  from  the  candidacy  in  the 
name  of  Prince  Leopold.  It  was  sent  by  the  French 
Emperor's  secret  agent,  a  Roumanian  named  Straz. " 

He  went  on  informing  himself,  with  a  quiet  side-glance 
to  right  and  left,  of  the  effect  his  communication  was  pro- 
ducing : 

' '  Perhaps  you  do  not  know  Straz — a  man  with  the  profile 
and  curls  of  one  of  M.  Layard  's  man-god  bulls  of  Nineveh, 
a  living  tool  that  might  have  been  tempered  in  the 
workshop  of  an  Alexander  Borgia,  or  a  Catherine  de 
Medici " 

He  stopped  to  fill  one  of  his  great  crystal  goblets  from 
the  champagne-bottle  that  stood  beside  him.  Moltke,  indif- 
ferent to  the  dishes  that  stood  temptingly  within  reach, 
had  been  wiping  the  inside  of  his  wig  dry  with  his  hand- 
kerchief. Now,  oblivious  of  the  wig,  and  crumpling  it 
with  the  handkerchief  into  a  ball,  he  was  squeezing  the 
ball  between  his  narrow  palms  as  he  listened  to  the  speaker. 
Von  Eoon,  who  had  been  busy  upon  some  sweetbreads 
cooked  in  sour  cream,  paused  in  the  act  of  helping  him- 
self again  largely. 

"So— so— this  fellow— Straz "  The  Chancellor  stut- 
tered now  and  then,  and  he  did  it  here  effectively — ' '  This 

uns-scrupulous  f -fellow  of  whom  I  am  t-talking "  He 

drained  the  big  glass  to  the  dregs,  wiped  his  mustache 
carefully,  and  began  delicately  unfolding  more  thin  sheets 
of  paper  from  the  small  but  pregnant  wad. 

* '  Ah,  yes,  where  was  I  ?  Th-this  morning,  the  twelfth  of 
July,  the  originals  of  these  three  telegrams,  which  are  not 
in  cipher,  were  sent  from  Sigmaringen  by  Prince  Antony. 
The  first,  to  Marshal  Prim,  at  Madrid,  withdraws  his  son 
from  the  candidacy.  The  second,  to  Olozaga,  recapitu- 
lates the  wording  of  this.  The  third,  ostensibly  addressed 
to  the  principal  journals  of  Berlin  and  Germany,  and  to 
the  German  Submarine  Telegraphic  Agencies  by  order  of 


204  THE   MAN   OF  IRON 

Prince  Leopold  of  Hohenzollern,  abandons  all  pretensions 
to  Jhe  Spanish  scepter,  and  restores  to  Spain  her  freedom 
of  initiative." 

Von  Roon  bellowed  like  a  nine-inch  siege  gun: 

"What  May-madness  has  the  confounded  old  billy- 
goat?" 

The  Chief  of  the  Great  General  Staff  put  on  his  wig, 
and  said,  folding  his  lean  arms  upon  his  sunken  chest: 

"How  has  he  at  Paris  managed  to  frighten  the  old 
man?" 

The  Chancellor  said,  fixing  his  full,  powerful  eyes  upon 
the  light  ones  twinkling  through  their  wise  old  puckers: 

"The  mission  of  M.  Straz,  privately  sent,  upon  the 
advice  of  the  Duke  de  Gramont,  by  the  Emperor  of  France 
to  Sigmaringen  (while  Count  Benedetti  repairs  to  the 
King  of  Prussia  at  Ems,  and  a  third  emissary,  Bartholdi, 
is  sent  to  menace  President  Zorilla  at  Madrid) — the  mis- 
sion of  M.  Straz  is  to  terrify  the  Prince  and  Princess 
with  threats  of  the  assassination  of  one,  if  not  both  their 
sons." 

Commented  Moltke,  shrugging  a  shoulder : 

' '  To  work  on  the  woman,  always — if  there  is  one !  .  .  . 
Badinguet's  tactics  are  not  new — but  they  are  effective 
beyond  doubt." 

"Knave!"  came  from  Roon,  in  a  blurt  of  indignation 

"Says  Stfaz  to  Prince  Antony  of  Hohenzollern — I  give 
you  the  exact  words; — 'Highness,  His  Imperial  Majesty 
the  Emperor  authorizes  me  to  inform  you  that  a  group  of 
Roumanian  conspirators  are  plotting  against  the  life  of 
your  elder  son,  Prince  Charles  von  Hohenzollern — now 
Charles  of  Roumania.  The  threads  of  this  plot  being 
centered  in  Paris,  it  is  in  the  Emperor's  power  to  sever 
them — he  will  do  so  if  Prince  Leopold  withdraws  from 
the  candidature, — he  will  not  seek  to  deter  the  conspir- 
ators, should  the  Prince  prove  obstinate.  Reflect  in  addi- 
tion that  Prince  Leopold,  as  King  of  Spain,  will  have 
to  contend  against  the  plots  of  Alfonsists  and  Carlists — 
as  against  the  intrigues  of  Montpensier  and  other  aspir- 
ants to  Isabella's  vacated  throne.  He  will  not  be  sum- 
moned to  reign — he  will  be  called  to  a  disaster.  Death 
will  sit  beside  him,  under  the  Royal  canopy.'  ' 

The  reader's  muscular  white  hands  drew  another  crack- 
ling sheet  from  the  little  roll  of  papers.  He  went  on: 


THE    MAN    OF,   IRON  205 

"The  mother  of  the  two  young  men  was  present — as 
was  intended — when  Straz  delivered  this  message  from, 
the  Emperor.  Naturally  the  Princess  brought  her  bat- 
teries to  work  upon  the  Prince  and  her  younger  son, 
who,  though  it  is  not  admitted,  was  actually  present. 
She  has  wept,  implored,  prayed,  fainted,  argued  for  forty- 
eight  hours " 

The   Field-Marshal  muttered: 

"Poor  soul!" 

And  with  his  wrinkled  hand  he  rubbed  a  glistening 
drop  from  his  cheek,  that  was  not  perspiration.  Von  ROOD. 
snorted  like  a  dyed  old  war-horse: 

"Meanwhile,  the  Imperial  Ambassador,  Count  Bene- 
detti,  will  be  setting  forth  the  object  of  his  mission  to  the 
King!" 

Said  the  Chancellor,  letting  the  words  come  out  softly 
and  distinctly, — and  one  would  have  expected  so  huge  a 
man  to  roar  after  the  fashion  of  giants,  rather  than  to 
speak  in  such  mellifluous  tones: 

"His  instructions  run  thus:  'Say  to  the  King  that  we 
have  no  secret  motive,  that  we  do  not  seek  a  pretext  for 
war — and  that  we  only  ask  to  reach  an  honorable  solu- 
tion of  a  difficulty  that  was  not  created  by  us.'  ' 

"It  is  honorable,  then,"  said  Von  Moltke  in  a  tone  of 
childlike  wonder,  ' '  to  threaten  to  murder  that  old  woman 's 
two  sons?" 

"Meanwhile,"  said  the  mellifluous,  pleasant  voice  of  the 
Chancellor,  "the  Emperor  and  Marshal  le  Boeuf  have  sent 
Staff-Colonel  Gresley  to  Algiers  with  secret  orders  to  Mac- 
Mahon  to  embark  those  troops  from  Africa  which  are 
most  available  for  service  on  the  Continent,  and  to  warn 
the  most  distant  regiments  to  be  at  Algiers  on  the  18th. 
The  Generals  of  his  Artillery  and  Engineers  have  been 
dispatched  upon  a  plain-clothes  confidential  visit  of  in- 
spection to  the  fortresses  of  the  North-East,  all  leave  has 
been  stopped,  and  the  commanders  of  brigades  have 
apprised  the  staffs  of  the  mobilization  offices  to  dispatch 
the  orders  of  recall  of  the  reserves.  This  was  put  into 
effect  on  the  8th.  Upon  the  same  day  the  order  was  given 
to  bring  the  Infantry  regiments  up  to  War  strength  by 
the  creation  of  their  Fourth  Battalions,  and  General  Blon- 
deau,  of  the  Administrative  Branch  of  the  "War  Depart- 
ment, has  been  authorized  to  exceed  his  credit  by  the 


206  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

sum  of  a  million  francs."  He  ended,  showing  his  small, 
regular  teeth,  as  he  smiled  agreeably  upon  his  hearers: 
"The  Tuileries  system  of  Secret  Intelligence  is  certainly 
excellent,  but  I  do  not  think  we  are  so  badly  served!" 

"Badly  served!"  echoed  Roon.    "One  would  say  not!" 

"You  must  be  served  by  the  great  devil  himself  and  all 
his  devilkius,  Otto,  my  dear  fellow ! ' '  said  the  Chief  of  the 
Great  General  Staff,  with  a  merry  chuckle,  "to  have  all 
this  dished  up  to  you  before  it  is  cold!  "Well,  well! 
Thanks  be  to  the  good  God — we  are  not  so  far  behind 
these  French  as  we  might  be!  No,  no!  not  at  all  so  far 
behind!  .  .  ." 

He  said  this  musingly,  his  startlingly  limpid  eyes  almost 
hidden  by  the  wrinkles  and  puckers,  his  long,  humorous 
upper  lip  drawn  down  and  set  firmly  on  the  lower  one, 
as  he  cupped  his  sharp  chin  in  the  palm  of  one  wrinkled 
hand,  nursing  the  elbow  appertaining  to  it  in  the  palm 
of -the  other  hand. 

"  'So  far  behind,'  do  you  say?"  growled  Von  Roon. 
"Sapperlot!  I  should  call  it  a  day's  march  and  a  half- 
day's  march  ahead!" 

"It  may  be — it  may  be!"  said  the  Field-Marshal 
placidly.  "God  grant  that  it  prove  so!" 

' '  You  are  as  pious  as  the  King  to-night, ' '  said  the  Chan- 
cellor, laughing  heartily.  "And  your  God  is  the  God  of 
Battles,  we  all  know!" 

"Yes,  yes,  the  Friend  Above  does  not  forget  this  old 
fellow!"  said  the  Field-Marshal  simply.  "The  thousand- 
ton  Krupp  gun — whose  acquaintance  the  Parisians  made 
at  the  Exposition  of  1867, — has  been  waiting  ever  since  to 
make  upon  them  an  impression  of  a  different  kind!  Like 
the  gun,  I  have  bided  my  time,  as  the  Scotch  say.  Neither 
the  cannon  nor  myself  will  last  for  ever,  but  to  worry  is 
folly!  .  .  .  Heaven  will  not  let  us  rust  upon  the  shelf!" 

"  'Menscli  drgere  Dich  nicht'  is  a  good  proverb."  said 
the  Chancellor,  "not  only  for  Your  Excellency!  Chained 
to  my  study-table  all  yesterday  and  this  morning, — hor- 
ribly handicapped  by  the  absence  of  my  First  Secretary 
Abeken,  who  is  doing  duty  with  the  King  at  Ems. — listen- 
ing to  reports,  receiving  showers  of  telegrams,  dictating 
replies  in  answer  to  the  appeals  or  expostulations  of 
Foreign  Ministers — sending  instructions  to  Ambassadors, 
and  drinking  Miihlbrunnen  water, — which  must  not  be 
taken  when  one  is  vexed  or  worried,  if  one  wants  it  not 


THE    MAN   OF    IRON  207j 

to  play  the  very  devil  in  one's  inside,  I  chewed  the  cud 
of  that  proverb,  'Man,  do  not  vex  thyself!'  to  keep  myself 
from  gnawing  my  tongue.  That  official  international 
threat  of  Gramont,  uttered  in  the  session  of  the  Corps 
Legislatif  of  July  6th, — the  filth  hurled  by  the  Paris  Press 
— did  not  cost  me  a  sleepless  night.  But  that,  after  such 
insults,  the  King  of  Prussia  should  treat  with  Benedetti 
at  Ems  while  the  Prussian  Foreign  Minister  remained  at 
Varzin — stuck  in  my  gizzard  as  though  I  had  swallowed 
a  prickle-burr.  It  was  worse  than  Olmiitz.  ...  I  saw 
nothing  but  resignation  ahead  of  me!" 

Von  Eoon  agreed: 

"To  me  also  it  seemed  a  slight  not  to  the  Foreign 
Minister  alone — but  to  His  Majesty's  Government  in  your 
person. ' ' 

The  Field-Marshal  added,  his  wrinkled  face  lengthening 
dourly : 

"I  may  tell  you — there  being  no  ladies  present! — the 
whole  affair  acted  on  me  like  unripe  gooseberries,  espe- 
cially after  reading  that  sentence  in  the  Gaulois,  written 
by  a  gamin  with  a  finger  to  his  nose.  ..." 

Von  Roon  thundered: 

"  'La  Prusse  cane!'  Only  say  black-dose,  rather  than 
sour  gooseberries,  and  there  you  have  the  effect  of  the 
words  on  me  ! ' ' 

Said  the  Chancellor,  with  a  twinkle  of  humor: 

' '  They  wrought  upon  myself  as  an  emetocatharsis.  For, 
repudiating  the  slight,  and  simultaneously  expelling  from 
my  system  the  last  remains  of  compunction,  I  decided 
then  and  there  to  hurry  off  from  Varzin  to  Ems  for  the 
purpose  of  urging  upon  His  Majesty  the  urgent  necessity 
for  summoning  the  Reichstag.  The  words  I  meant  to  use 
kept  drumming  in  my  skull — We  shall  be  traitors  to  our- 
selves if  we  do  not  accept  this  challenge.  Without  an 
instant's  delay,  we  must  mobilize!" 

Said  Roon: 

"Why  not,  when  we  are  prepared  to  take  measures  for 
the  safety  of  the  Rhenish  provinces?  We  can  put  Saar- 
briick  in  a  state  of  defense  in  twenty-four  hours,  and 
Mainz  in  less  than  forty-eight.  Is  it  not  so,  Herr  General 
Field-Marshal?" 

Von  Moltke's  dry,  level  voice  returned  quietly: 

"My  plan  of  invasion  was  drawn  up  in  1868.  All  my 
arrangements  are  made,  as  I  have  said.  When  His  Maj- 


208  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

esty — when  the  Chancellor  of  the  Confederation  and  Your 
Excellency  give  the  signal — I  go  home  to  my  quarters  on 
the  first  floor  of  the  south-east  wing  of  the  Great  General 
Staff  Department,  and  dispatch  a  telegraphic  message  of 
three  words  ..."  He  began  to  laugh,  rubbing  his  hands 
together.  ' '  Then — you  will  see  whether  I  am  ready !  All  I 
ask  is  Opportunity — like  Krupp's  thousand-tonner  gun!" 


XXYI 

THE  CHANCELLOR  said,  emptying  another  bumper  of  cham- 
pagne : 

"This  morning  the  opportunity  lay  within  grasp.  So 
strongly  convinced  was  I  of  this  that  as  my  phreton  passed 
through  the  village  of  Wussow,  on  the  way  to  the  station, 
'War  is  Inevitable'  seemed  written  on  every  house.  The 
old  clergyman  stood  before  his  parsonage  door  and  greeted 
me  with  a  hand-wave.  My  answer  was  the  gesture  of  a 
thrust  in  carte  and  tierce.  For  me  the  three  words :  '  War 
is  Declared'  replaced  the  lettering  of  the  advertisement 
posters  on  the  walls  of  the  stations  the  special  rushed 
through.  Yet,  though  I  had  notified  His  Majesty  of  the 
advisability  of  summoning  me  to  his  assistance,  I  received, 
even  as  I  stepped  out  of  the  train  at  the  Stettin  Station, 
a  vacillating  telegram  from  him,  enjoining  delay."  He 
added,  laughing :  ' '  Together  with  a  message  in  cipher  from 
our  Prussian  Ambassador  at  Paris,  informing  me  that  it 
has  been  given  forth  from  the  tribune  of  the  Corps  Legis- 
latif  that  had  not  Prince  Leopold  retreated  from  the 
Spanish  candidature,  to  prevent  the  war  with  which  the 
Emperor  threatens  us — the  Government  of  Napoleon  III. 
would  have  extorted  a  letter  of  apology  from  the  King." 

Roon  could  not  speak.     Said  Moltke: 

"The  Gallic  cock  crows  loudly!  Such  a  letter  would 
nicely  recoup  France  for  the  humiliation  of  Sadowa." 

"Did  France  succeed  in  extorting  it,"  retorted  the 
Chancellor,  "but  she  has  got  to  get  it  first!" 

The  forehead  of  Roon  was  black  as  thundercloud.  He 
unhooked  his  collar,  and  wiped  his  congested  face.  The 
Field-Marshal  thrust  his  hand  under  his  wig  perplexedly, 
saying : 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  209 

"That  His  Majesty  should  continue  to  treat  with  Bene- 
detti  after  all  these  insults  and  outrages.  ...  It  passes 
my  understanding,  I  am  fain  to  confess!" 

' '  The  Count  himself  would  have  no  difficulty  in  reading 
the  riddle, ' '  said  the  Chancellor,  shrugging.  "He  is — 
according  to  his  own  conviction — a  diplomat  of  the  first 
water,  a  statesman  of  infinite  finesse  and  irresistible  per- 
suasions. Yet  he  did  not  coax  us  into  the  Emperor's  trap 
in  1867.  Speaking  of  that,  I  have  in  my  pocket  something 
that  will  presently  jump  out  of  it,  a  testimony  in  his  own 
handwriting  that  he  is  not  quite  so  clever  a  fellow  as  he 
thinks!" 

"To-day,"  boomed  Roon,  "I  met  Prince  Gortchakoff. 
We  were  riding  in  the  Unter  den  Linden  when  he  stopped. 
He  spoke  of  the  King's  age — the  merest  allusion  in  refer- 
ence to  a  site  he  pointed  out  as  being  suitable  for  a  statue. 
His  Majesty  was  to  be  represented  holding  a  wreath  of 
laurel  with  the  dates  of  1864  and  1866  upon  it.  While 
emblematical  figures  of  Peace,  and  the  Genius  of  the  Do- 
mestic Hearth,  were  shown  disarming  him  of  his  helmet 
and  sword." 

"A  sneer  thoroughly  merited,"  said  the  Chancellor,  "by 
these  days  of  hesitation ! ' '  He  added :  ' '  The  Genius  of  the 
Domestic  Hearth  is  for  the  moment  at  Coblenz.  However, 
wifely  expostulations  can  be  conveyed  by  telegram.  Her 
Majesty's  cry  is,  'Remember  Jena  and  Tilsit  and  avoid  war, 
even  at  the  cost  of  national  dishonor!'  Should  these  en- 
treaties of  the  Queen  prevail,  she  will  merit  the  reproof  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott— I  think  it  was  Sir  Walter  Scott !— who 
addressed  to  his  grayhound,  Maida,  who  had  torn  up — 
unless  I  err? — the  manuscript  of  a  newly-completed  novel. 
'Poor  thing!  thou  little  knowest  the  injury  thou  hast 
done!'  " 

"Women  are  less  reasonable,"  declared  Von  Koon, 
"than  bitches,  to  my  mind!" 

' '  Nay,  nay ! ' '  said  the  Field-Marshal  with  sudden  anger. 
"Maida  was  not  a  bitch,  and  I  cannot  agree  with  you! 
Great  and  noble  female  characters  have  been,  and  exist 
now — not  only  in  the  pages  of  history-books.  It  may  be 
that  Her  Majesty  is  prejudiced — her  influence  has  not 
always  been  favorable  to  the  adoption  of  measures  I 
would  have  counseled.  But  she  is  high-minded! — a  great 
lady,  and  truly  devoted  as  a  wife.  And  with  this  ring 


210  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

upon  my  finger" — he  held  up  his  wrinkled  left  hand  and 
showed  the  narrow  band  of  gold — "it  would  ill  become 
me  to  sit  still  and  hear  women  likened  to  the  unreasoning 
beasts  that  perish,  when  for  all  I  know  my  beloved  wife 
Mary  is  standing  by  my  side!" 

He  drank  a  sip  of  wine,  and  continued  more  mildly: 

"The  good  God  took  her  to  Himself  twelve  years  ago, 
in  the  fullness  of  life  and  strength  and  English  beauty ! — 
while  I,  more  than  thirty  years  her  senior,  hang  yet  upon 
the  tree.  On  the  top  of  the  hill  at  Crusau  is  her  tomb, 
where  one  day  I  shall  lie  beside  her.  But  before  that  day" 
— the  brave  old  eyes  snapped  fire,  and  he  wrinkled  up  his 
ancient  eagle-beak  as  though  he  savored  the  fumes 
already — "it  may  be  that  I  shall  smell  powder  again!" 

"Let  us  drink  to  that!"  said  the  Chancellor.  As  they 
filled  their  glasses  there  came  a  peculiar,  scratching  knock 
on  the  door. 

"Come  in,  Bucher!"  cried  the  host  harshly,  and  the 
summons  was  answered  by  one  of  His  Excellency's  Privy 
Councillors  of  Legation,  a  little,  stooping  old  gentleman, 
with  a  large  hooked  nose  and  a  grizzled  mustache  and 
whiskers,  who  was  dressed  in  a  chocolate-colored,  single- 
breasted  frock-coat,  tightly  fastened  with  gilt  buttons, 
and  who  wore  a  black  satin  stock,  with  the  tongue  of  the 
buckle  sticking  up  among  the  locks  at  the  back  of  his 
neck,  and  baggy  black  cloth  trousers  ending  in  the  feet 
of  a  Prussian  Lifeguard,  encased  in  huge  and  shapeless 
cloth  boots;  these  moved  him  noiselessly  to  the  elbow 
of  the  Chancellor,  to  whom  he  whispered,  handing 
him  a  card,  large  and  square,  and  unmistakably  fem- 
inine: 

' '  And  so,  as  Madame  was  urgent  .  .  .  Your  Excellency 
knows  what  women  are!" 

"Thanks  to  some  early  studies  in  femininity,  I  am 
credited,"  said  the  Chancellor,  "with  knowing  a  great 
deal  too  much  about  the  sex.  Where  have  you  put 
Madame?" 

Bucher  answered,  raising  himself  on  his  toes  to  approach 
his  lips  to  the  large,  well-shaped  ear;  for  even  seated,  the 
Chancellor  overtopped  him : 

"In  the  gracious  Countess's  little  red  damask  back 
drawing-room  " 

"  It  is  doubtful,  my  good  Bucher,  whether — did  she  know 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  211 

how  she  was  honored — the  gracious  Countess  would  welcome 
her  visitor." 

"Alas!  Your  Excellency!"  pleaded  the  Councillor,  "but 
Her  Excellency  does  not  know! — and  the  room  contains 
nothing  valuable.  Only  a  few  family  pictures — no  china, 
silver,  or  bric-d-brac.  Nothing  that  it  would  be  any  use 
to  steal!" 

' '  Come,  come ! ' '  expostulated  the  Minister,  his  blue  eyes 
alight  with  cynical  amusement,  "you  must  not  speak  of 
Madame  as  though  she  were  a  house-thief.  Our  good 
Bucher, "  he  went  on,  turning  jestingly  to  his  table  com- 
panions, "sees  little  difference  between  a  person  who  picks 
brains  for  pay,  and  sells  the  pickings,  and  another  person 
who  picks  locks  and  steals  silver  vases  and  cups.  Rather 
a  reflection  on  the  Diplomatic  Service,  now  I  think  of  it ! " 

"Ach!  Herr  Gott!"  said  the  Councillor  in  alarm,  "I 
cast  no  reflection,  Your  Excellency  knows  it!  Only  the 
woman  is  of  light  reputation " 

"And  may  be  light-fingered  into  the  bargain.  Pos- 
sibly—  "  said  the  Chancellor,  "and  all  the  better  if  she 
be  so!  "We  will  risk  my  wife's  family  portraits  in  her 
vicinity  until  after  dinner.  Have  coffee  and  liqueurs  sent 
to  her,  and  beg  her  to  wait  a  while."  He  added,  "Let 
them  put  cigarettes  on  the  tray — I  have  no  doubt  she 
smokes  tobacco.  And  as  the  smell  will  have  passed  off 
before  my  wife  and  daughter  return  from  Varzin,  neither 
of  the  ladies  will  ever  know  of  the  desecration  of  the  red 
damask  back  drawing-room." 

And  as  Bucher  shuffled  out  of  the  room  to  execute  his 
errand,  his  Chief  rang  the  bell  for  the  third  course. 

"By  the  way,  Excellency,"  said  the  "War  Minister,  as 
the  demure  servants  out  of  livery  removed  the  empty 
dishes:  "that  Frenchwoman  of  poor  Max  Valverden's  is 
driving  about  Berlin." 

"So!"  commented  the  host,  turning  an  inscrutable  face 
upon  the  Minister.  ' '  She  must  find  it  very  warm,  and  in- 
sufferably dull." 

"She  consoled  herself,"  said  Roon,  "not  long  after 
Count  Max's  suicide." 

"There,"  burst  out  the  Field-Marshal,  "was  an  incom- 
prehensible catastrophe !  That  young  man — who  was  mili- 
tary attache  at  our  Embassy  in  Paris  until  the  return 
of  the  Allied  Armies  of  Great  Britain  and  France  from 


212  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  Crimea  in  1856 ;  and  in  1866,  ten  years  later,  joined  my 
staff  in  Austria  as  third  aide-de-camp — I  cannot  under- 
stand it — he  must  have  been  demented ! ' ' 

He  unbuttoned  the  frock-coat,  showing  an  unstarched, 
but  scrupulously  clean  white  shirt  and  vest  of  white  nan- 
keen,- and  taking  a  little  silver  snuff-box  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  laid  it  down  carefully  upon  the  tablecloth  as  he 
said: 

"In  '56  he  brought  his  mistress  from  Paris  with  him — 
he  was  infatuated  with  her  spirit  and  beauty.  They  said 
she  was  the  wife  of  an  officer  in  Grandguerrier 's  Division, 
who  had  served  throughout  the  whole  of  the  "War  in  the 
Crimea." 

"A  chef  d'escadron  of  Mounted  Chausseurs,  who  seems 
to  have  taken  his  wife's  desertion  philosophically,"  com- 
mented the  Chancellor. 

The  Field-Marshal  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  gravely 
shook  his  head. 

"Of  that  I  know  nothing,  but  there  was  no  meeting. 
Max  Valverden  assured  me,  on  his  honor,  that  an  oppor- 
tunity for  the  challenge  had  been  given.  Otherwise  the 
young  Count  could  not  have  continued  in  our  Prussian 
Army — one  would  naturally  have  been  obliged  to  retire 
him."  He  sneezed  and  went  on:  "My  personal  acquaint- 
ance with  Valverden  began  ten  years  later.  He  served  me 
— excellently.  One  should  always  give  due  praise  to  the 
dead.  But  when  he  returned  from  Austria — then  hap- 
pened the  tragedy,  at  Schonfeld  in  the  Altenwald,  where 
lies  his  patrimonial  property,  and  where  the  lady  waited. 
And — he  shot  himself,  upon  the  very  night  of  his  return 
to  her." 

"Not,"  interposed  the  cool,  level  voice  of  the  Chan- 
cellor, "not  being  expected  until  noon  of  the  day  follow- 
ing." 

"Of  that  I  know  nothing,"  said  Moltke,  turning  his 
ascetic  hairless  face  full  upon  the  speaker.  "What  I  know 
is  that  an  officer  who  faithfully  served  his  country  and 
whom  I  had  recommended  for  distinction,  at  the  earliest 
opportunity — died  by  his  own  hand!  How  the  woman 
was  left,  I  cannot  tell  you. ' ' 

"Count  Maximilian  von  Schb'n-Valverden  had  provided 
for  Madame  de  Bayard  when  summoned  upon  active  Ser- 
vice," said  the  Chancellor.  "His  family  did  not  contest 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  213 

the  will,  and  she  is  not  badly  off.  Therefore,"  he  added 
with  a  smile,  "when  she  condescends  to  serve  my  Intelli- 
gence Department  as  a  spy,  you  may  suppose  she  does  not 
do  it  too  cheaply.  I  must  refer  to  my  perambulating 
ledger,  Bucher,  before  I  quote  you  the  exact  figures  of  the 
sum  I  am  to  hand  her  to-night.  She  is  a  true  daughter 
of  the  horseleech,  who  cries  'Give,  give,  give!'  incessantly. 
But  all  the  same  I  am  indebted  to  her  for  those  remark- 
ably interesting  particulars  concerning  the  Mission  of  M. 
de  Straz  to  Prince  Antony." 

"So!"  ejaculated  Von  Roon  in  astonishment.  The 
Field-Marshal  rubbed  his  chin  and  turned  his  clear  eyes 
upon  the  speaker,  who  went  on  smilingly : 

"M.  de  Straz  is  susceptible — a  fatal  fault  in  a  conspira- 
tor. Madame  is  still  seductive,  with  a  figure  like  Circe, 
ropes  of  black  silk  hair,  a  skin  of  cream,  though  the  roses 
are  bought  ones!  and  eyes  the  color — exactly  the  color 
of  old,  pale  tawny  port.  Now,  when  you  reflect  that  she 
is  waiting  in  my  wife's  red  boudoir  to  interview  me  in  my 
next  spare  moment — do  you  fear  for  my  hitherto  unassail- 
able virtue,  or  regard  me  as  proof  against  such  charms  ? ' ' 

' '  I  never  bet  more, ' '  said  Moltke,  ' '  than  half  a  pfennig, 
and  then  only  when  I  play  cards  with  my  niece. ' ' 

' '  I  will  wager  you  proof, ' '  cried  Roon,  ' '  for  two  hundred 
thalers!" 

"I  can  hardly  bet  upon  my  own  marital  infidelity!" 
said  the  Chancellor,  laughing,  as  a  servant  uncovered  the 
dish  newly  placed  before  him.  "Will  Your  Excellency 
take  some  of  this?" 

"This"  was  the  savory  piece  de  resistance  of  the  mascu- 
line banquet,  a  lamb  of  six  weeks,  roasted  to  a  golden 
brown,  basted  with  marrow,  and  surrounded  with  tiny 
cucumbers  stuffed  with  seasoning. 

Moltke  accepted  the  offer  with  alacrity,  indifferent  to 
the  charms  of  veal  with  tomatoes  and  aubergines.  Von 
Roon,  declining,  hurled  himself  upon  a  fillet  of  beef  jar- 
diniere, and  hacked  a  huge  steak  from  its  surface  as  with 
a  sword,  rather  than  a  carving-knife.  The  Chancellor,  ply- 
ing his  gleaming  weapons  delicately,  liberally  supplied  his 
guest  and  piled  his  own  plate,  saying  as  he  launched 
himself  upon  its  contents  with  unabated  appetite: 

' '  Confederations  may  disappoint  us — Kings  may  deceive 
us — while  our  teeth  and  our  digestions  faithfully  serve  us, 


214  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

we  can  find  some  zest  in  life.  When  I  retire,  I  shall  culti- 
vate vegetables,  plant  forest-trees,  rear  trout,  breed  cattle, 
sheep,  pigs,  and  poultry — drop  my  hereditary  patronymic 
as  I  shed  my  titles  of  office  and  be  known  to  all  posterity 
as  the  Farmer  of  Varzin ! ' ' 

The  hall-bell  had  been  heard  to  ring  a  moment  pre- 
viously. There  was  another  scratching  signal  on  the  door, 
and  Bucher  appeared,  manifestly  excited  and  carrying  a 
telegraphic  dispatch. 

"What  now?"  asked  the  Chancellor,  finishing  a  mouth- 
ful. 

"A  telegram  from  Ems "  began  the  Councillor. 

The  imperious  hand  whipped  it  from  between  his  pudgy 
fingers;  the  masterful  voice  demanded,  as  the  envelope 
was  rent  open: 

"The  decipherer  has  not  left?" 

"Excellency,  no!"  twittered  the  Councillor,  agitated  by 
the  portentous  frown  of  his  Chief,  and  by  the  grave  faces 
of  Moltke  and  Roon.  The  paper  was  thrust  back  to  him 
with  the  curt  order: 

' '  Get  this  deciphered — do  not  delay ! ' ' 

And  as  the  Legation  Councillor  vanished,  Bismarck  said 
with  a  short  laugh,  bending  his  powerful  regard  on  the 
gaunt,  black  stare  of  the  War  Minister : 

"It  is  from  the  King,  and  will  not  please  us.  We  may 
make  up  our  minds  beforehand  to  that.  Yet  I  drink  this 
glass  to  the  honor  of  Prussia!"  And  filling  his  great 
bumper  glass  from  a  fresh  bottle  that  had  been  placed  at 
his  elbow,  he  gulped  down  at  least  a  pint  of  the  creaming 
nectar  of  the  Widow  Clicquot,  and  his  guests,  in  smaller 
measures,  pledged  the  same  toast.  After  that  they  sat  in 
silence,  the  Chancellor  alone  continuing  to  eat  with  appe- 
tite— until  the  Councillor's  big  feet  came  shuffling  back 
again. 

"The  copy,  Excellency,  200  groups  altogether,"  he  be- 
gan, "signed  by  the  Herr  Privy  Councillor  von  Abeken, 
at  His  Majesty's  command." 

The  papers  he  held  were  whipped  away  from  him.  The 
Chancellor  read — and  his  countenance  most  grimly  altered. 
His  brows  grew  thunderous,  trenches  dug  themselves  along 
his  forehead,  caves  appeared  about  his  blazing  eyes,  and 
the  pouches  under  them  portentously  bagged.  The  heavy 
mustache  might  shade  the  mouth  and  chin,  but  could  not 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  215 

hide  that  they  were  changed  to  granite.  He  passed  his 
firm  hand  over  them  and  said,  his  incisive  tones  veiled 
with  a  curious  hoarseness: 

"Mr.  Councillor  of  Legation,  you  will  now  leave  us. 
When  I  ring  the  bell  it  summons  you.  Pray  tell  Dr.  Busch 
that  his  services  will  be  needed.  Some  articles  must  be 
written  for  the  Press  to-night. ' ' 

He  said,  as  the  door  closed  behind  Bucher,  and  the  smile 
that  accompanied  the  words  was  grim  and  cynical: 

"Well,  gentlemen,  we  have  got  our  final  slap  in  the 
face!  The  Press  organs  of  the  Ultramontane  and  the 
Democrats  will  call  us  by  our  nicknames  to-morrow :  '  Old 
Hellfire '  and  '  Death 's  Chess-Player '  and  '  The  Pomeranian 
Ogre '  and  all  the  rest.  But — I  swear  to  you  that  no  enemy 
of  mine  will  ever  despise  me  as  I  now  despise  myself ! ' ' 

Roon  and  Moltke  regarded  him  in  silence.  He  went  on 
speaking,  still  with  that  strange  hoarseness: 

"Some  have  called  me  the  Iron  Chancellor.  I  will  tell 
you  by  what  title  Wilhelm  the  First  of  Prussia  will  go 
down  to  posterity.  Men  will  speak  of  him  as  the  Fluid 
King.  It  is  written  in  the  Scriptures, — all  day  the  phrase 
has  haunted  me, — 'Unstable  as  water,  thou  shalt  not 
excel!'  ; 

At  a  glance  from  the  War  Minister,  Moltke  rose  up  sud- 
denly. His  stooping  scholar's  body  sprang  upright  as  a 
lance.  He  said,  and  the  words  rang  clear  as  steel  on  steel: 

"Your  Excellency,  I  deplore  the  necessity  of  imposing 
silence  upon  you.  But  the  obligation  of  my  military  oath, 
and  your  own " 

He  paused  as  the  great  figure  of  his  host  reared  up  at 
the  head  of  the  table.  He  saluted  the  Field-Marshal  and 
said  coldly: 

"Herr  General  Field-Marshal,  the  rebuke  is  merited. 
Holding  the  King's  commission  as  Colonel  of  White 
Cuirassiers  of  the  Landwehr,  I  have  spoken  treasonably. 
Does  your  Excellency  wish  me  to  ring  for  my  sword?" 

Moltke 's  wrinkled  face  flashed  into  amusement,  as  the 
Chancellor  imperturbably  stretched  his  hand  to  the  bell 
beside  him.  He  said,  laughing: 

"Colonel  Count  von  Bismarck-Schonhausen,  I  accept 
your  apology.  I  will  limit  the  period  of  your  arrest  to  con- 
finement to  this  room  until  conclusion  of  dinner,  on  con- 
dition that  you  read  now  this  message  from  Ems." 


216  THE   MAN   OF   IRON 

The  Chancellor  saluted,  and  glancing  at  Roon,  who  was 
now  standing,  gloomy  and  downcast,  "We  look,"  he  said, 
"like  three  mourners  about  a  bier.  It  is,  in  fact.  Prussia 
who  lies  dead  upon  the  table.  However,  judge  of  the  situa- 
tion for  yourselves." 

And  he  read  out  the  famous  telegram  handed  in  at  Ems 
at  three-thirty : 

"Count  Benedetti  spoke  to  me  on  the  Promenade  in  order 
to  demand  from  me  finally,  in  a  very  important  manner, 
that  I  should  authorize  him  to  telegraph  at  once  to  Paris 
that  I  bound  myself  for  all  future  time  never  again  to  give 
my  consent  if  the  Hohenzollerns  should  renew  their  candi- 
dature. I  refused  at  last  somewhat  sternly,  as  it  is  neither 
right  nor  possible  to  undertake  engagements  of  this  kind 
a  tout  jamais.  Naturally  I  told  him  that  I  had  received  no 
news;  and  as  he  was  earlier  informed  from  Paris  and 
Madrid  than  myself,  he  could  clearly  see  that  my  Govern- 
ment once  more  had  no  hand  in  the  matter." 

"Ei-ei!"  broke  in  Moltke,  "'Somewhat  sternly'  .  .  . 
' Naturally  I  told'  .  .  .  'Neither  right  nor  possible,'  and 
then  'no  hand  in  the  matter!'  Do  I  hear  the  King — 
or  have  my  ears  played  tricks  on  me  ? " 

"Kreuzdonnerwetter!"  exploded  Roon.  "Well  might 
one  ask  '  Is  this  the  master  or  the  servant  speaking  ? '  But 
go  on,  go  on,  I  pray  your  Excellency ! ' ' 

The  reader  had  transformed  his  face  to  an  expression- 
less mask  that  might  have  been  wrought  in  stone  or  metal. 
Now  the  tell-tale  huskiness  of  fierce  emotion  cleared  from 
his  voice.  He  resumed: 

"This  closes  His  Majesty's  personal  communication. 
Herr  Privy  Councillor  Abeken  continues  to  the  end. ' ' 

Said  Moltke:  "Let  us  hear  what  little  Abeken  has  got 
to  say  to  you." 

The  cold,  incisive  voice  recommenced  reading : 

"His  Majesty  commands  me  to  inform  you  that  he  has 
since  received  a  letter  from  the  Prince.  His  Majesty,  hav- 
ing told  Count  Benedetti  that  he  was  awaiting  news  from 
the  Prince,  has  decided,  upon  the  representation  of  Count 
Eulenburg  and  myself,  not  to  receive  Count  Benedetti 
again,  but  only  to  let  him  be  informed  through  an  aide- 
de-camp  that  His  Majesty  has  now  received  from  the  Prince 
confirmation  of  the  news  Benedetti  has  already  received 
from  Paris,  and  has  nothing  further  to  say  to  the  Ambassa- 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  217 

dor.  His  Majesty  leaves  it  to  Tour  Excellency  whether 
Benedetti's  fresh  demand  and  its  rejection  should  not  ~be  at 
once  communicated  both  to  our  Ambassadors  and  to  the 
Press  representatives." 

The  close  of  the  Royal  communication  plopped  into  a 
pool  of  silence.  The  Chancellor  coughed,  and  said  with  his 
characteristic  stutter : 

"The-the  laxity  and  diffuseness  of  the  verbiage  of  this 
dispatch  1-lul-leave  me  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  favorable  effect 
the  Ems  waters  have  already  wrought  upon  the  constitution 
of  His  Majesty!" 

Roon  barked  his  laugh.  Moltke  raised  his  thoughtful 
head  from  his  breast  and  said  laconically : 

"It  gives  me  the  belly-ache  to  listen  to  such  rubbish. 
[Are  we  German  men  or  German  mice  ? ' ' 

The  Chancellor  shrugged  and  said: 

' '  More  than  ever  it  is  clear  that  my  position  is  untenable. 
The  King,  under  pressure  of  threats  mingled  with  en- 
treaties, has  permitted  himself  to  be  heckled  by  the  Em- 
peror's Franco-Italian  emissary.  He  ignores  my  urgent 
request  that  he  should  refer  Benedetti  to  his  Foreign  Min- 
ister. Now,  by  the  medium  of  an  inferior  official,  he  tells 
me  that  I  may  acquaint  the  representatives  of  the  State 
and  the  Press — that  nothing  is  settled  and  no  definite  end 
in  view!  What  is  settled  is,  that  I  resign!" 

Von  Roon  called  out  harshly,  striking  a  sinewy  fist  upon 
the  table : 

"Your  Excellency  will  not  leave  your  friends  in  this 
extremity  ? ' ' 

Moltke  turned  to  him  half  whimsically,  half  plead- 
ingly : 

' '  For  our  sake,  Otto,  stick  by  the  old  wagon ! " 

The  Chancellor  said,  with  a  sudden  softening  of  the  grim 
lines  of  his  strong  face,  and  of  the  eyes  that  had  been 
fixed  and  expressionless: 

' '  You  talk,  both  of  you,  like  two  babes  in  the  wood.  As 
far  as  regards  my  personal  influence  to  sway  the  King  or 
control  the  feeling  of  the  Reichstag — another  hand  may 
guide  the  State  as  well  as  this  of  mine.  Yet,  were  it  pos- 
sible— having  already  the  King's  permission — to  produce  a 
somewhat  concentrated  version  of  this  verbose  telegram. 
.  .  .  Has  either  of  you'  a  pencil? — mine  has  been  mis- 
laid. ,  ." 


218  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Here,  take  mine!"  said  the  Field-Marshal  eagerly. 

The  Chancellor  took  the  offered  pencil  with  a  brief  nod 
of  thanks,  swept  the  silver-gilt  milkmaid  ruthlessly  aside, 
and  spreading  the  forms  containing  the  Royal  dispatch 
on  the  space  she  had  occupied,  pored  over  them  for  a 
moment,  frowning  heavily,  before  the  red-chalk  crayon 
began  to  play  its  part.  Words  were  struck  out — then 
whole  sentences.  .  .  . 

"Ah,  ah!"  said  Moltke,  beaming.  "He  has  finished  at 
last.  Now  let  us  hear  what  it  sounds  like  with  its  mane 
cropped  and  its  tail  docked?" 

"Reduced,"  said  the  Chancellor,  lifting  his  great  eyes 
from  the  red-crayoned  papers,  "without  addition  or  al- 
teration, the  message  might  run  thus  ..." 

He  read: 

"After  the  news  of  the  renunciation  of  the  hereditary 
Prince  of  Hohenzollern  had  been  officially  communicated  to 
the  Imperial  Government  of  France  by  the  Royal  Govern- 
ment in  Spain,  the  French  Ambassador  at  Ems  further  de- 
manded of  His  Majesty  the  King  that  he  would  authorize 
him  to  telegraph  to  Paris  that  His  Majesty  the  King  bound 
himself  for  all  future  time  never  again  to  give  his  consent 
should  the  Princes  of  Hohenzollern  renew  their  candida- 
ture." 

1 '  Good,  very  good ! ' '  growled  Roon. 

"That  seems  to  me  excellent!"  said  Moltke,  twinkling. 

The  Chancellor  finished: 

"His  Majesty  the  King  thereupon  decided  not  again  to 
receive  Benedetti,  the  French  Ambassador,  and  sent  the 
aide-de-camp  on  duty  with  the  information  that  His  Maj- 
esty had  nothing  further  to  say  to  him!" 

"Bravo,  bis!"  roared  Roon. 

"Why,"  said  Moltke,  rubbing  his  hands  delightedly, 
' '  now  it  has  a  different  ring  altogether.  Before  it  sounded 
like  a  parley.  Now  it  is  a  fanfare  of  defiance !  Sentences 
like  these  are  worthy  of  a  King!" 

"And  there  can  be  no  accusations  of  falsification,"  said 
the  Chancellor,  bending  his  powerful  regard  upon  his  two 
colleagues.  "The  Bund  Chancellor  carries  out  what  the 
Prussian  monarch  commands.  He  communicates  this  text 
by  telegraph  to  all  our  Embassies  and  to  the  Press  agencies. 
Is  it  his  fault  if  its  published  words  provoke  the  Gallic 
cock  to  show  fight  ? ' ' 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  219* 

"I  understand,"  said  the  "War  Minister  joyfully,  "that 
we  should  be  the  party  attacked  first.  And  we  shall  be, 
and  we  shall  win!  Our  God  of  old  lives,  and  will  not  let 
us  perish!" 

"Has  Your  Excellency  nothing  to  say  to  me?"  asked  the 
Chancellor,  fixing  his  great  eyes  on  the  face  of  Moltke,  now 
radiant  with  childlike  happiness. 

"Were  I  a  poet,"  returned  the  joyous  old  artist  in  war, 
seizing  the  hand  outstretched  to  him  across  the  table,  and 
wringing  it  between  both  his  own,  "I  should  crown  you 
with  a  wreath  of  laurel  inscribed  '  Hail  to  thee,  Guardian  of 
Prussia's  honor!'  or  something  of  that  kind.  Being  what 
I  am,  I  say  that  you  are  what  my  English  nephews  would 
call  'a  trump!'  As  you  said  this  morning  when  you  quitted 
Varzin,  '  War  Is  Inevitable ! '  '  He  added,  hitting  himself 
a  resounding  thump  in  the  chest:  "And  if  I  may  but  live 
to  lead  our  armies  in  such  a  war — then  the  devil  may  come 
directly  we  have  conquered  these  Frenchmen  and  fetch 
away  this  crumbling  old  carcass!"  He  added,  with  a 
change  to  gravity:  "I  do  not  say  my  soul,  for  I  am 
a  decent  Christian.  Hey,  look  here,  our  dinner  has  got 
cold!" 

It  was  true;  the  viands  were  stagnant  in  the  dishes. 
The  fillet  sat  in  the  center  of  a  stagnant  lake  of  congealed 
gravy;  the  roasted  lamb,  reduced  by  the  onslaughts  of  the 
Chancellor  to  a  partial  skeleton,  was  covered  with  a  frost- 
ing of  rich  white  fat.  He  said,  with  a  laugh  that  clat- 
tered against  walls  and  ceiling  like  a  discharge  of  mus- 
ketry, and  reaching  for  the  bell  that  would  summon 
Bucher : 

"It  does  not  matter;  my  cook  has  always  a  second  menu 
ready  in  case  of  delays  or  accidents.  While  Bucher  com- 
municates to  our  Embassies  and  the  European  Press  Agen- 
cies the  concentrated  essence  of  His  Majesty's  telegram — 
while  hundreds  of  thousands  of  handbills  are  being  printed 
that  shall  disseminate  the  text  throughout  Germany,  and 
Busch  writes  the  articles  that  shall  put  the  needful  com- 
plexion on  this  affair — we  will  order  up  the  Moet  and 
Chandon  White  Star — I  am  thirsty  after  so  much  talking ! 
— and  eat  our  dinner  again ! ' ' 


220  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 


XXVII 

EVER  since  the  King,  returning  from  the  baths  of  Ems, 
had  been  met  at  the  railway-station  by  his  Under-Secretary 
of  State  bearing  France's  declaration  of  war, — a  huge, 
orderly  crowd,  compact  of  all  classes  and  callings,  had 
ceaselessly  rolled  through  the  streets  of  Berlin,  chanting 
with  its  thousands  of  sturdy  lungs  "Heil  dir  im  Sieger- 
kranz"  and  the  "Wacht  am  Rhein"  until  its  patriotic 
fervor  reached  a  state  of  ebullition  only  to  be  relieved  by 
volleys  of  cheers. 

Jammed  in  the  solid  mass  of  bodies  blackening  the  Unter 
den  Linden  and  packing  the  Opera-Platz  to  suffocation, — 
until  the  bronze  equestrian  statue  of  the  Great  Friedrich, 
opposing  the  eastern  courtyard  gateway  of  the  small  stuc- 
coed Palace,  reared  above  a  tossing  sea  of  heads, — P.  C. 
Breagh  tasted  the  raptures  of  emancipation  from  the 
mill-round,  and  drank  in  news  at  every  pore. 

For  this  was  life  in  earnest.  .  .  .  With  the  red-hot  cigar- 
end  of  a  corpulent  merchant  burning  the  back  of  his  neck, 
and  the  crook  of  a  market  woman's  blue-cotton  umbrella 
imperiling  his  left  eye ;  while  the  sword-hilt  of  a  gigantic 
Sergeant  of  Uhlans  insinuated  itself  between  his  third  and 
fourth  ribs  on  the  right  side,  and  the  huge  flaxen  chignon 
of  a  servant-girl,  armed  with  a  capacious  market-basket 
crammed  with  meat,  fish,  and  vegetables  for  family  con- 
sumption, bobbed  itself  into  his  mouth  whenever  he  opened 
that  feature  to  cheer,  or  gasp  for  air,  heavily  burdened  with 
the  fumes  of  beer,  schnaps,  herring-salad,  garlic,  sauer- 
kraut, and  perspiring  humanity,  he  was  happier  than  ever 
he  had  been  before. 

The  King,  it  was  said,  was  holding  a  council  with  his 
Ministers  and  Generals  in  his  study  on  the  ground-floor  of 
his  Palace  looking  on  the  Opera-Platz.  Presently  His 
Majesty  might  be  expected  to  come  out. 

The  tall,  elderly,  white- whiskered  officer  in  the  undress 
uniform  of  the  Prussian  foot-guards — a  blue  tunic  with 
red  facings,  silver  buttons  and  epaulettes — had  already 
appeared  upon  the  balcony  of  a  window  overlooking  the 
Linden,  and  touched  his  spiked  helmet  in  response  to  the 
frenzied  acclamations  of  his  scarlet,  perspiring  subjects, 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  221 

whose  staring  eyes  and  open  mouths  a  Berlin  dust-storm 
was  filling  with  peppery  grit. 

Presently  the  King  had  moved  back  into  the  room 
behind  him,  and  returned  with  the  Queen,  a  tall,  thin,  ele- 
gant lady  in  half-mourning,  who  was  weeping ;  people  said, 
because  she  hated  the  thought  of  war,  and  had  besought 
her  husband,  on  her  knees,  to  truckle  to  the  Napoleon  at 
Paris,  and  thus  avert  hostilities. 

When  the  royal  couple  had  retired  amid  plaudits  of  a 
somewhat  less  enthusiastic  kind,  the  people  had  demanded 
the  Crown  Prince;  and  the  King  had  stepped  out  yet 
again  with  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  heir-apparent,  a 
tall  and  stalwart  man  of  thirty-nine,  with  a  clear  red-and- 
white  complexion,  setting  off  his  well-cut  features,  kindly 
blue  eyes,  and  flowing  beard  of  yellow-brown. 

Unser  Fritz! — his  manly  good  looks  and  the  Order  of 
Merit  shining  on  his  general's  uniform  had  provoked  fresh 
outbursts  of  patriotic  enthusiasm,  in  which  the  gray-pow- 
dered foliage  of  the  overrated  linden-trees,  limply  resting 
during  a  sudden  lull  of  the  dust-storm,  had  been  wildly  agi- 
tated, and  the  very  street-lamps  had  rocked. 

But  when  the  King,  turning  to  his  heir,  gave  him  his 
hand, — when  the  son,  reverently  bending,  raised  it  to  his 
lips,  and  the  father  with  manifest  emotion  embraced  him, — 
there  had  fallen  a  silence  of  sympathetic  emotion.  .  .  . 
Then  the  great  martial  figure  had  reared  erect  again  and, 
stepping  to  the  front  of  the  balcony,  had  shouted  to  the 
people : 

"Krieg!    MoUl!" 

"Mobilization!  .  .  .    War!  ..." 

All  the  shouting  that  had  gone  before  was  no  more  than 
the  squealing  of  a  kindergarten  compared  with  the  mighty 
roar  that  greeted  these  two  pregnant  words!  The  scorch- 
ing, dusty  blue  sky-dome,  now  tinged  with  sandy-pink  sun- 
set toward  the  Brandenburg  Gate,  seemed  to  quiver  with 
the  upward  rush  of  it.  And — not  by  accident — from  the 
forest  of  flagstaffs  mounted  on  the  Palace,  the  Opera  House, 
and  the  buildings  contingent, — as  down  the  whole  length 
of  the  Linden  to  the  Ministerial  palaces  of  the  Wilhelm 
Strasse, — the  black-and-white  Flag  of  Prussia  and  the 
Hohenzollern  banner  of  white  with  the  black  eagle  and 


222  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  cross  of  the  old  Teuton  Order,  broke  and  fluttered  on 
the  sandy  breeze. 

The  National  Anthem  broke  out  once  more,  and  the  war- 
song,  "Ich  bin  ein  Preusse."  The  King  retired  on  his  son's 
arm  manifestly  overcome  with  weariness.  Still  the  vast 
crowd  of  heated  faces,  set  with  shining  eyes,  and  holed  with 
roaring  mouths,  persistently  turned  toward  those  ground- 
floor  windows  of  the  Palace.  Something  more  yet!  asked 
all  the  gaping  mouths  and  staring  eyes. 

But  the  blinds  of  the  monarch 's  study  were  pulled  down, 
unmistakably  signifying  that  all  was  over  for  the  present. 
.  .  .  The  central  valves  of  the  great  gilded  Palace  gates 
were  now  shut,  leaving  open  only  the  smaller  carriage-way, 
through  which  mounted  aides  and  orderly  officers  convey- 
ing dispatches  presently  began  to  stream.  The  carriages 
of  Ministers  and  other  State  officials  followed  these,  while 
lesser  personages,  emerging  from  the  exit  left  for  pedes- 
trians, began  to  hail  cab-drivers  from  the  stand  of  hack- 
neys on  the  Linden  side  of  the  Opera  House.  Swearing,  the 
frustrated  Jehus  of  these  vehicles  laid  about  them  with 
their  whips  in  the  endeavor  to  force  their  animals  through 
the  solid  crowd.  .  .  . 

A  man  went  down  under  the  hoofs  of  a  wretched  Rosi- 
nante.  There  were  cries  for  ' '  Police ! ' '  and  spiked  helmets 
appeared  in  the  crowd.  It  surged  and  swayed.  .  .  .  The 
guardians  of  the  law  had  drawn  their  cutlasses  and  were 
beating  their  fellow-children  of  the  Fatherland  upon  their 
heads  with  the  flat  of  these  weapons,  in  the  attempt  to 
effect  a  junction  between  the  cabs  and  those  who  wished  to 
hire  them.  Thus  the  pressure  on  the  flanks,  ribs  and 
breast-bone  of  P.  C.  Breagh  became  suffocating.  Lifted 
from  his  feet,  he  was  carried  backward  and  forward  by 
rushes,  growing  less  certain  of  his  own  identity  as  the 
roaring  in  his  ears  became  louder.  Just  as  his  eyelids 
dropped  and  he  passed  out  of  his  own  knowledge,  a  power- 
ful hand  caught  him  by  the  coat-collar,  and  a  solid  rampart 
of  human  flesh  interposed  between  his  lately-drifting  body 
and  the  waves  of  the  human  sea  that  raged  beyond. 

Gulping,  P.  C.  Breagh  became  aware  that  he  was  spread- 
eagled  against  the  railings  of  the  Palace  courtyard  facing 
the  Unter  den  Linden,  and  that  a  big  man  in  a  loose  black 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  223 

waterproof  rain-cloak  and  broad-leaved  black  felt  hat  was 
holding  to  a  railing  on  each  side  of  him  and  warding  off 
the  rushes. 

"Th-thanks!  I'm  tremendously  obliged!  .  .  ."  he  was 
beginning,  when  the  swish  of  the  cutlasses  and  the  shriek- 
ing of  the  cutlassed  drowned  his  voice.  Yet  another  voice, 
masculine,  resonant,  and  imperious,  dominated  all  others; 
it  cried: 

' '  The  King  commands  the  police  to  sheath  their  swords ! ' ' 

And  upon  the  instant  lull  in  the  tumult  that  followed 
came  another  order: 

"His  Majesty  has  work  to  do  for  the  Fatherland.  Let 
the  people  disperse  quietly  to  their  homes!" 

And  the  crowd,  pacified  and  quieted,  answered,  ""We 
will  so!"  in  a  crashing  volley  of  Teutonic  gutturals,  and 
began  to  split  up  and  move  away  in  sections,  singing  "Keil 
dir  im  Siegerkranz"  in  sonorous  unison.  When  through 
the  Palace  gates  came  a  small  and  shabby  brougham  drawn 
by  a  venerable  bay,  and  driven  by  an  elderly  coachman 
in  gray-and-black  livery,  the  sight  of  whose  military  cock- 
ade evoked  another  whirlwind  of  enthusiasm.  .  .  . 

"Moltke!  It  is  our  Moltke!"  men  shouted  to  one 
another,  and  the  old  General,  who  sat  alone  in  the  carriage, 
the  lean,  stooping,  septuagenarian  in  the  spiked  helmet, 
whose  thin,  ascetic  face  was  rosy  with  suppressed  excite- 
ment and  whose  pale  blue  eyes  twinkled  good-humoredly 
between  their  narrow  lids  at  the  seething  ocean  of  human- 
ity in  which  the  shabby  brougham  labored,  saluted  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  cheers. 

"Moltke!  Long  live  our  Moltke!  But  where  has  Otto 
got  to ! "  hiccuped  an  alcoholic  seaman,  clutching  the  ledge 
of  the  brougham  window.  He  continued  in  the  midst  of 
a  silence  born  of  consternation:  "What  has  become  of  the 
Big  Pomeranian?  We  would  have — hie! — carried  him 
home  shoulder-high  for  this  week's — hie! — work  he  has 
done!" 

Zealous  hands  dragged  the  presumptuous  speaker  back, 
as  the  venerable  expert  in  war  doffed  his  spiked  helmet,  and 
said,  popping  his  auburn-wigged  head  out  of  the  brougham 
window : 

"Where  Count  Bismarck  is  needed  there  he  will  be,  de- 
pend on  it !  Now,  children,  let  me  get  back  to  my  maps ! ' ' 


224  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Tell  us  first  how  things  are  going  in  France  yonder?" 
bellowed  another  Berliner,  and  the  great  Field-Marshal 
answered,  pointing  the  jest  with  his  keenest  twinkle: 

"You  want  to  know  how  things  are  going  there?  Well, 
the  wheat  has  suffered  from  the  drought,  but  acorns  and 
potatoes  promise  to  be  plentiful,  and  pumpkins  will  be  big 
this  year!" 

And  the  crowd,  splitting  with  laughter,  made  way  for 
the  brougham  of  the  Chief  of  the  General  Staff,  and  the 
joke  was  sown  broadcast  over  Germany  before  the  end  of 
half  an  hour.  For  were  not  Moltke's  acorns  the  oblong, 
round-ended  bullets  of  the  Prussian  needle-gun,  as  his 
potatoes  were  the  shrapnel  shell  cast  by  the  six-pounder 
steel  breech-loaders  designed  by  Krupp  for  the  Prussian 
field-artillery,  and  the  big  pumpkins  the  seventeen-pound 
projectiles  fired  by  the  siege-guns  of  nine  centimeters' 
bore?  .  .  . 

The  massive  ribs  that  had  acted  as  buffers  between. 
P.  C.  Breagh  and  the  battering  onslaughts  of  the  crowd 
shook  with  laughter  as  the  brougham  moved  on  through 
a  lane  that  continuously  opened  in  the  mass  of  bodies  and 
closed  when  it  had  passed.  .  .  .  Then  their  owner  settled 
the  wide-leaved  felt  hat  more  firmly  on  his  head,  and  said 
in  well-bred,  fluent  English,  turning  his  heavily- jowled 
face  and  powerful,  fiery-blue  eyes  on  P.  C.  Breagh,  who 
was  thanking  him  in  his  best  German  for  his  timely  as- 
sistance : 

"Do  not  thank  me  so  effusively.  I  have  a  habit  of 
sometimes  saving  a  man 's  life !  Yours  happened  to  be  in 
peril ;  there  is  no  need  to  say  more ! ' ' 

The  clear  incisive  tones  had  an  inflection  that  was  almost 
contemptuous,  yet  a  smile,  curving  the  heavy  mustache, 
showed  the  small  and  well-preserved  teeth  it  shadowed, 
as  he  added  in  his  admirable  English,  fastening  a  button 
of  the  thin  black  waterproof  cloak  which  had  been  dis- 
arranged in  the  recent  struggle  sufficiently  to  show  that  it 
covered  some  sort  of  military  uniform: 

"Save  this, — that  I  happen  to  possess  a  son  about  your 
age,  and  should  not  care  to  lose  him!" 

And  with  this  he  was  gone,  leaving  P.  C.  Breagh  breath- 
less with  the  greatness  of  the  adventure  that  had  befallen 
For  the  owner  of  the  bulldog  face  with  the  fierce 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  225 

blue  eyes  blazing  over  their  heavy  orbital  pouches,  was 
the  unpopular  Minister  who  had  been  booed  by  the  Ultra- 
montane and  Socialist  students  three  years  before,  as  the 
Berlin  express-train  passed  through  the  station  of  Schwarz- 
Brettingen — the  all-powerful  Chancellor,  who  was  meant 
when  diplomats  and  Press  leader-writers  referred  to 
"Prussia." 

What  did  he  on  foot  in  those  packed,  roaring  thorough- 
fares, where  the  assassin's  dagger  or  revolver  might  play 
its  part  so  safely?  Perhaps,  like  the  Third  Napoleon, 
whose  peacock  bubble  of  Empire  might  now  have  reached 
the  point  of  bursting,  Count  Bismarck  believed  in  his 
fortunate  star.  .  .  . 

Ah!  what  was  that  round  bright  object  lying  on  the 
pavement?  P.  C.  Breagh,  still  dazed  with  the  magnitude 
of  the  thing  that  had  befallen  him,  stooped  and  picked, 
it  up. 

It  was  a  medal  of  silver,  with  the  Prussian  Eagle  enam- 
eled in  red  upon  the  obverse,  and  a  name  which  left  no 
doubt  as  to  the  identity  of  P.  C.  Breagh 's  rescuer.  Upon, 
the  reverse  was  the  inscription:  "Fur  Rettung  aus  Gefahr" 
— "For  Saving  From  Danger."  "With  the  date  of  the 
24th  June,  1842.  .  .  . 

No  doubt  the  Chancellor  prized  this,  the  decoration 
earned  at  twenty-four  for  saving  his  orderly-groom  and 
another  private  from  drowning,  when  serving  as  Landwehr 
cavalry  officer  with  the  Stargaard  Regiment  of  Hussars. 
Well,  he  should  have  it  back, — but  into  no  hands  but  hia 
would  P.  C.  Breagh  surrender  it, — P.  C.  Breagh,  who  had 
been  cast  out  with  mockery  from  the  editorial  offices  of 
one  daily  and  two  evening  newspapers,  when  he  had  offered 
— at  a  rate  of  astounding  cheapness, — to  supply  their  col- 
umns with  material  drawn  from  the  experiences  of  one 
who  had  never  previously  enjoyed  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
the  thing  called  War. 

One  Editor  had  dealt  with  him  drastically,  pitching  his 
card  into  the  waste-paper  basket,  and  saying,  "No!  Get 
out  with  you!"  A  second  had  whistled  up  a  tube  and 
called  down  a  sub-editor,  and  said  to  him,  ' '  Look  at  this ! ' ' 
The  third  had  preached  a  brief  but  pithy  sermon  on  pre- 
sumption and  cocksureness,  winding  up  with  the  intima- 
tion that  if  P.  C.  Breagh  ever  found  himself  at  the  seat  of 


226  THE   MAN   OF   IRON 

war  and  in  possession  of  any  experiences  worth  recording, 
he  might  submit  them  for  consideration  if  he  chose. 

These  men  would  never  know  it,  but  they  were  pro- 
foundly humiliated.  At  least  one  of  them  had  lost  a  half- 
column,  striking  the  note  of  personal  adventure  to  the 
clink  of  shekels  of  fine  gold.  As  for  Mr.  Knewbit  .  .  . 
P.  C.  Breagh  could  almost  hear  him  chuckling — had  only 
to  shut  his  eyes  to  see  the  poker,  sketching  out  headings 
on  the  Coram  Street  kitchen  wall : 

"ADVENTURE   OF   YOUNG   ENGLISHMAN. 

WAE  CORRESPONDENT  IN  BERLIN. 
CRUSHED  BY  THE  CROWD. 

RESCUED  BY  BISMARCK. 
THE  IRON  HAND  SAVES  A  LIFE!" 

Meanwhile,  the  medal  had  to  be  returned  to  the  hands 
of  its  owner,  who  must,  P.  C.  Breagh  was  firm  on  that ! — 
consent  to  receive  it  from  the  hands  of  the  finder,  if  he 
wanted  it  back  again.  P.  C.  Breagh  knew  the  Foreign 
Office,  in  the  Wilhelm  Strasse — the  shabbiest  residence  in 
all  that  street  of  official  palaces — with  its  high-pitched,  red- 
tiled  Mansard  roof,  its  shabby  gray  stuccoed  front  (a  main 
building  with  two  short  wings,  pierced  by  twelve  windows, 
and  decorated  with  a  sham-Hellenic  frieze  and  shallow 
pilasters), — and  its  big,  park-like  garden  stretching  away 
behind. 

So,  clutching  the  precious  token,  P.  C.  Breagh  plunged 
back  into  the  crowd.  It  was  dense,  but  no  longer  solid, 
and,  still  lustily  singing,  with  intervals  of  cheering,  it  bore 
him  down  the  Linden  as  far  as  the  Brandenburg  Gate. 

There  it  split  into  three  vociferating  rivers  of  human- 
ity. One  of  which  streamed  north-westward  toward  the 
offices  of  the  Great  General  Staff,  where  Moltke,  the  ancient 
war- wizard,  was  busy  over  his  maps!  Another,  desirous 
of  refreshment,  surged  onward  in  the  direction  of  the 
Thiergarten.  The  third  flowed  down  the  street  of  palaces, 
and  with  it  went  P.  C.  Breagh. 


THE  MAN:  on  IRON         227 


XXVIII 

THE  FOREIGN  OFFICE  knocker  was  a  colossal  funereal  wreath, 
of  sooty  bronze  laurel,  that  wakened  hollow  startling  echoes 
in  the  tomb-like  void  of  a  grim  stone  vestibule. 

The  vestibule  lay  at  the  end  of  a  glass-roofed  passage. 
On  the  right  was  a  window,  behind  the  window  gleamed 
an  eye,  belonging  to  the  Chancery  janitor  who  had  manip- 
ulated the  door-levers.  The  door  banged  behind  P.  C. 
Breagh,  and  his  hope  climbed  a  central  flight  of  stairs, 
gray- white  marble,  with  bronze  balusters  badly  in  need  of 
cleaning.  The  staircase  was  covered  with  worn  Turkey 
carpet,  was  lighted  from  above  by  a  green  and  gold  cupola, 
and  guarded  by  two  conventional  figures  of  sphinxes, 
carved  in  shiny  blackish  stone. 

All  these  details  the  eye  of  P.  C.  Breagh  gleaned  over 
the  arm  of  the  Chancellor's  door-porter,  a  seven-foot  East 
Prussian,  who  wore  plain  black  official  livery  and  carried 
no  gold-headed  staff,  yet  would  have  snubbed  the  Rector 
of  the  University  of  Schwarz-Brettingen  had  he  presented 
himself  in  this  unceremonious  way. 

"What  does  he  want?  The  young  man  must  know 
that  His  Excellency  the  Royal  Chancellor  of  the  North 
German  Confederation  is  engaged  upon  State  business — 
not  to  be  approached  by  strangers  having  no  appointments 
or  credentials  previously  obtained.  An  introduction  to  His 
Excellency  is  indispensable.  Where  has  the  young  man 
lived  that  he  does  not  know  that  ? ' ' 

To  which  the  young  man  thus  addressed  could  only 
reiterate  that  he  deeply  regretted  the  absence  of  a  letter 
of  introduction,  and  that  his  credentials  could  only  be 
displayed  to  His  Excellency  himself. 

"It  is  likely!"  The  porter's  forehead  corrugated  with 
suspicion:  "Thus  is  he  approached  by  lunatics  and  dan- 
gerous persons,  armed  with  crazy  petitions  or  lethal 
weap " 

"Bosh!" 

The  English  word  made  the  porter  leap  in  his  square- 
toed,  steel-buckled  half-shoes.  Recklessly  P.  C.  Breagh 
went  on: 

"I'm  neither  a  lunatic  nor  an  assassin  ...  It's  just  a 
case  of  Rettung  aus  Gefahr.  Two  lives  saved  in  the  year 


228  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

1842,  and  another  less  than  an  hour  ago.  .  .  .  Send  that 
message  to  His  Excellency,  and  he'll  see  me,  I  believe!" 

"He  believes!"  .  .  .  snorted  the  porter  indignantly. 

A  little,  stooping,  shabbily  dressed  old  man  in  a  choco- 
late-colored frock-coat  with  gilt  buttons  came  shuffling 
across  the  vestibule  carrying  a  handful  of  papers,  telegrams 
they  appeared  to  be.  He  had  paused  to  listen  to  the  latter 
part  of  the  colloquy,  holding  his  head  on  one  side,  as 
though  the  better  to  focus  his  sharp  gray  glance  on  the 
dusty,  obtrusive  young  Englishman  crowned  with  a  sun- 
burnt Oxford  straw  hat,  attired  in  a  well-worn  brown 
Norfolk  jacket,  knickerbockers  and  heather-mixture  woolen 
stockings,  and  shod  with  stout,  black,  leather-laced,  hob- 
nailed boots. 

' '  He  believes ! ' '  exclaimed  the  porter  as  though  referring 
to  the  chocolate-coated  old  gentleman.  "Will  not  the 
highly  well-born  Herr  Legation- Councillor  order  that  I 
summon  Grams  and  Engelberg,  and  have  this  presump- 
tuous person  thrown  into  the  street?" 

"Softly,  softly,  my  good  Niederstedt ! "  advised  the  lit- 
tle chocolate-coated  old  gentleman.  He  added,  shuffling 
forward  in  his  immense  black  cloth  boots  over  the  slippery 
marble  pavement  of  the  vestibule :  "It  has  occurred  to  me 
that  an  utterance  of  this  young  man's  referred  to  an  ar- 
ticle that  has  been  lost  by  His  Excellency."  He  added, 
fixing  his  sharp,  gray,  jackdaw's  eyes  on  the  face  of  the 
young  man :  ' '  Not  valuable,  but  worth  recovering — purely 
as  a  memento  of  the  past !  .  .  . " 

Said  Carolan  bluntly : 

"I  did  refer  to  such  an  article.  In  fact,  I  have  it  on 
me!" 

A  finger  and  thumb,  stained  with  snuff,  dipped  into  the 
Councillor's  waistcoat  pocket.  He  said,  secretly  conveying 
an  order  to  the  watchful  porter  with  a  twirl  of  one  jack- 
daw-eye : 

"For  a  couple  of  thalers,"  he  displayed  the  coin,  "a 
box  of  smokable  cigars  may  be  purchased  in  Berlin. ' '  He 
added,  having  cast  for  a  bite,  and  missing  the  rise :  ' '  Four 
thalers  secures  a  really  excellent  article ! ' ' 

"Certainly,"  agreed  P.  C.  Breagh. 

"But  for  ten  thalers,"  continued  the  old  gentleman  with 
forced  enthusiasm,  coaxingly  beckoning  P.  C.  Breagh  to 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  229 

approach  nearer,  "one  may  smoke  the  choicest  Havana 
brands.  Give  me  the  medal,  fortunate  young  man,  and 
take  the  money.  Such  a  sum  is  not  often  picked  up  in  the 
street!" 

Said  the  young  man,  thus  adjured,  thrusting  out  his 
square  chin  obstinately: 

"If  His  Excellency  consents  to  receive  me,  I  will  per- 
sonally return  the  medal  to  him.  Be  good  enough  to  let 
him  know  as  much." 

"Unhappy  young  man!  you  realize  not  the  greatness  of 
your  own  presumption!"  expostulated  the  old  gentleman, 
lifting  up  his  warty  eyelids  and  puffing  out  his  whiskered 
cheeks  over  his  old-fashioned  black  satin  stock.  "Is  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Realm  to  be — and  at  a  national  crisis 
such  as  this? — at  the  beck  and  call  of  every  English  trav- 
eler?" He  added  with  warmth:  "For  I  know  you  to  be 
of  that  nation,  young  man,  though  you  speak  German 
with  some  approach  to  facility.  Hence !  Trouble  here  no 
more,  but  give  me  that  medal  before  you  take  your  de- 
parture. Otherwise  you  will  be  forcibly  relieved  of  it  by 
the  hands  of  those  who  are  accustomed  to  deal  with  bump- 
tious and  obstinately-authority-defying  persons  of  your  de- 
scription. ..." 

He  added,  as  the  arms  of  P.  C.  Breagh  were  pinioned  in 
an  iron  grip  that  clamped  the  elbows  together  behind  the 
shoulder-blades,  drew  his  arms  down,  and  pinioned  his 
wrists:  "He,  he,  he!  That  was  a  capital  stratagem  of 
yours,  my  excellent  Niederstedt!  Really  very  smartly 
done!" 

The  grim,  sable-clad  porter,  in  whose  huge  hands  P.  C. 
Breagh  vainly  struggled,  relaxed  into  a  smile  at  the  com- 
pliment. He  said,  as  from  different  points  two  stalwart 
liveried  attendants  appeared,  hastening  to  lend  assist- 
ance: 

' '  One  has  not  served  in  the  Prussian  Guards  for  nothing. 
Once  a  soldier,  always  a  soldier!  Will  the  highly  well- 
born Herr  Legation-Councillor  order  Grams  and  Engelberg 
to  hold  this  English  pig-dog  while  I  take  His  Excellency's 
medal  out  of  the  fellow 's  clothes  ? ' ' 

Snarled  P.  C.  Breagh,  livid  with  rage  and  glaring  at 
the  hostile  faces  like  a  young  male  tiger-cat: 

"Add  robbery  to  violence  if  you  think  well! — you  are 


230  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

four  to  one — and  in  your  own  country.  But  as  an  English, 
journalist  I  protest  against  the  outrage.  .  .  .  And  the 
British  Ambassador  shall  take  the  matter  up ! " 

There  was  an  instant's  pause  of  indecision,  during  which 
P.  C.  Breagh  heard  the  opening  of  a  door  on  the  landing 
above.  Then,  with  the  rustle  of  silk,  and  the  soft  fall  of 
footsteps  traversing  heavy  carpets,  a  resonant  voice  called 
down  the  stair  that  led  up  between  the  basalt  Sphinxes : 

"Meanwhile,  you  will  allow  me  to  apologize  for  the  too- 
excessive  zeal  of  my  servants.  Do  me  the  favor  to  come 
up  here ! ' ' 

The  grip  of  the  giant  porter  became  flaccid  as  an  in- 
fant's. The  voice  spoke  again  from  the  summit  of  the 
stair : 

' '  Herr  Legation-Councillor,  will  you  kindly  see  Madame 
to  her  carriage?  Au  revoir,  Madame,  et  bon  voyage!" 

A  liquid  voice  responded : 

" Au  revoir,  Monseigneur!  At  Paris — who  knows! — 
before  the  Noel!" 

She  pulled  down  her  veil,  curtsied  with  demure  elegance, 
and  came  softly  rustling  down  in  pale-hued,  trailing  silks 
and  laces,  one  snow-white  hand  blazing  with  splendid 
emeralds  lightly  passing  over  the  bronze  baluster-rail,  the 
other  holding  the  ivory  and  jeweled  stick  of  a  dainty 
parasol. 

"Madame!" 

As  by  an  afterthought  he  had  called  her.  Midway  in 
her  descent  the  lady  turned  to  look  up  at  him.  He  said, 
bending  his  powerful  eyes  upon  the  face  of  sensuous  loveli- 
ness: 

"Pardon!  but  I  believe — you  are  a  native  of  France?" 

The  hint  stung.  She  returned,  with  the  stain  of  an 
angry  blush  darkening  the  roses  purchased  from  Rimmel; 
and  a  hard  line  showing  from  the  angle  of  each  delicate 
nostril  to  the  corner  of  the  deep-cut,  scarlet  lips : 

"Monseigneur  is  correct  ...  I  am  a  Frenchwoman. 
.  .  .  But  the  heart  is  free  to  choose  its  own  country.  .  .  . 
And — mine  has  learned  to  beat  for  the  Fatherland!  .  .  ." 

So  exquisite  was  the  cadence  with  which  the  words  were 
uttered,  that  P.  C.  Breagh  heaved  an  involuntary  sigh. 
The  Legation-Councillor  took  snuff — it  may  have  been  his 
way  of  showing  emotion.  The  huge  porter  sighed  like  a 
locomotive  blowing  off  steam.  His  colleagues,  who,  like 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  231 

himself,  stood  waiting  in  rigid  military  attitudes,  suffered 
no  sympathy  to  appear  in  their  wooden  faces,  yet  may 
have  felt  the  more.  But  the  heavy  mask  of  their  master 
was  divested  of  all  expression. 

"Even,"  said  he,  in  his  clear,  resonant  voice,  "to  the 
point  of  outdoing  Agamemnon,  King  of  Argos.  For  he — 
but  doubtless  you  are  familiar  with  the  classic  story! — 
merely  sacrificed  Iphigeneia  on  the  altar  of  the  virginal 
Artemis.  ..."  He  added  with  a  tone  of  intolerable 
irony:  "It  would  have  required  fewer  scruples  and  more 
toughness  than  Agamemnon  possessed  to  have  offered  up 
an  only  daughter  to  Venus  Libertina.  .  .  .  Only  a  woman 
of  fashion  would  be  capable  of  such  infamy.  .  .  .  Pardon ! 
but  you  have  dropped  your  parasol!" 

She  had  shuddered  and  winced  as  though  his  words  had 
been  vitriol, — dropped  from  above — corroding  her  delicate 
flesh.  .  .  .  The  costly  toy  had  fallen  from  her  hand  as  the 
shudder  had  passed  over  her,  and  rolled  down  the  stair, 
as  she  continued  her  descent.  P.  C.  Breagh  picked  it  up 
and  handed  it  to  her,  as  she  set  foot  upon  the  lowest  step 
of  the  staircase.  She  looked  at  him,  and  bent  her  head. 
And  the  beauty  that  had  been  hers  a  moment  back  was 
so  strangely,  bleakly  altered,  he  could  scarcely  repress  an 
exclamation  of  dismay. 

Thus  Circe  might  have  stared,  thought  P.  C.  Breagh, 
when  her  feeding  hogs  leaped  up  as  men  frantic  for  ven- 
geance. Thus  Duessa,  when  the  spotted  image  of  her  own, 
vileness  was  reflected  in  the  glassy  shield  of  Truth. 

The  change  in  the  boy's  face  stabbed  Madame  to  con- 
sciousness. She  caught  at  her  mauve  tulle  veil,  forgetful 
that  it  was  already  lowered,  and  tore  it  horizontally,  so 
that  her  full  white  rounded  chin  emerged  with  fantastic 
effect,  like  the  moon  through  a  bank  of  storm-wrack.  And 
then,  with  her  head  held  high,  she  swept  through  the  vesti- 
bule in  a  frou-frou  of  silks  and  a  gale  of  perfume,  and 
down  the  passage  ending  in  the  hall-door  with  the  funereal 
knocker.  The  Legation-Councillor  trotted  after  her.  One 
of  the  servants  followed  him,  and  P.  C.  Breagh,  mounting 
the  staircase  between  the  Sphinxes,  reached  the  landing1 
and  the  summit  of  his  ambitions  in  a  breath. 

"Time  is  scarce!"  said  the  man  who  was  meant  when 
Prime  Ministers  and  political  leader-writers  referred  to 
Prussia.  "I  have  no  more  than  five  minutes  to  spare, 


232  THE   MAN   OF   IRON 

but  you  shall  have  them.  Come  this  way!  So  you  are 
an  English  journalist!  What  paper  do  you  represent,  here 
in  Berlin?  Sit  down  and  tell  me  in  as  few  words  as 
possible ! ' ' 

They  were  in  a  small  but  lofty  room  on  the  first-floor, 
hung  with  green  flock  paper.  It  had  a  fireplace  as  well 
as  a  stove,  and  it  was  a  study,  yet  it  contained  no  book- 
cases, only  a  couple  of  shelved  stands  laden  with  pamph- 
lets and  papers  of  the  official  kind.  The  two  high  windows 
— open  and  unblinded,  though  the  green-shaded  reading- 
lamp  upon  the  big  carved  mahogany  writing-table  was 
alight — looked  across  the  extensive  gardens  reaching  to 
the  Koniggratzer-Strasse.  Beyond  lay  the  Thiergarten, 
all  black  with  masses  of  people  under  the  sultry  red-gold 
sunset  of  middle  July. 

Perhaps  you  can  see — like  Scaramouch  and  the  Sultan 
in  the  Eastern  story — P.  C.  Breagh,  hot  and  dusty,  flushed 
and  rumpled,  seated  opposite  the  most  formidable  per- 
sonage of  the  day.  He  who  dictated  to  Kings  and  carried 
his  Foreign  Office  trailing  after  him  whenever  he  chose  to 
go  campaigning,  stood  upon  the  skin  of  a  white  lioness 
that  served  as  hearthrug,  and  bit  off  the  end  of  a  huge 
cigar.  He  looked  bulkier  than  ever,  and  the  powerful 
modeling  of  his  scant-haired  temples,  the  splendid  dome 
of  the  skull  that  housed  the  keenest  intellect  in  Europe, 
the  masterful  regard  of  the  great  eyes,  the  sarcastic  humor 
of  the  mouth  shaded  by  the  heavy  mustache — traits  and 
features  reproduced  so  constantly  in  the  illustrated  news- 
papers of  the  period, — conveyed  to  Carolan  the  impression 
that  a  portrait  moved  and  spoke. 

He  was  attired,  as  usually  represented,  in  a  dark  blue, 
braided  military  undress-frock,  and  trousers  tightly 
strapped  over  boots  with  cavalry  spurs.  An  Order  hung 
at  his  collar.  As  he  threw  back  his  head  in  the  act  of 
lighting  his  cigar,  P.  C.  Breagh  recognized  it — the  Cross  of 
a  Commander  of  the  Red  Eagle.  "While  on  the  left  breast 
of  the  blue  frock-coat  was  a  small  three-cornered  rent  in 
the  cloth  from  which  the  lost  medal  had  been  somehow 
wrenched  away.  .  .  . 

The  sight  of  that  tear  in  the  dark  blue-faced  cloth  sent 
the  blood  racing  to  P.  C.  Breagh 's  forehead.  He  knew 
himself  for  a  presumptuous  young  man.  He  plunged  his 
hand  into  the  pocket  of  the  brown  Norfolk  jacket,  and 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  233 

brought  out  the  red-and-white  enameled  decoration,  and 
said,  awkwardly  laying  it  upon  the  edge  of  the  big  writing- 
table,  in  the  yellow  radius  thrown  by  the  lighted  lamp : 

"I  found  this  after  Your  Excellency  had  gone!" 

' '  Hand  it  here ! ' '  said  the  heavy  blue  eyes  imperiously. 
P.  C.  Breagh  got  up  and  obeyed.  The  Chancellor's  long 
arm  shot  out,  and  the  muscular  white  fingers  whipped  the 
medal  from  the  palm  that  offered  it.  Its  owner  assured 
himself  by  a  brief  scrutiny  that  the  token  had  sustained 
no  injury,  nodded,  and  re-pinned  it  on  the  breast  of  his 
frogged  military  frock-coat.  When  this  was  accomplished, 
— the  small  solution  in  the  continuity  of  the  cloth  being 
covered  by  the  decoration, — he  said,  taking  the  cigar  from 
his  mouth,  and  knocking  off  the  long  crisp  ash  upon  the 
edge  of  the  white  earthenware  stove: 

"I  should  have  been  sorry  to  have  lost  that.  But,  while 
thanking  you  for  having  restored  it,  let  me  say  that  had 
my  servants  taken  it  from  you  by  force  majeure  they  would 
not  have  been  robbing  you, — though  in  law  they  might 
have  been  held  guilty  of  a  personal  assault.  Now  as  to 
your  business.  You  have  had  one  of  your  five  minutes! 
You  have  just  now  said  you  are  an  English  journalist. 
Does  your  business  concern  the  War?" 

P.  C.  Breagh  stammered — for  the  heavy  eyes  that  rested 
on  him  seemed  to  oppress  him  physically : 

"To  be  frank  with  Your  Excellency,  I  represent  no 
newspaper.  I  have  some  slight  experience  as  a  journalist, 
that  is  all, — War  Correspondence  seems  to  me  the  highest 
branch  of  journalism, — and  I  want,  naturally,  to  fit  myself 
to  practice  it.  Therefore,  as  no  newspaper  would  employ 
me,  I  accepted  a  private  commission  given,  out  of  good- 
nature, by  a  friend,  who  has  helped  me  before.  And — my 
first  day  in  Berlin — I  fell  in  with  Your  Excellency.  I 
won 't  deny  it  seemed  a  hopeful  augury ! ' ' 

"For  the  future!  ...  I  understand!"  said  the  Chan- 
cellor, sending  out  a  long  cloud  of  cigar-smoke.  "And  in, 
what  way  do  you  suggest  that  I  should  help  you  ? ' ' 

He  put  the  question  so  bluntly  that  P.  C.  Breagh,  in  the 
effort  to  answer,  floundered  and  boggled.  He  had  suddenly 
realized  his  own  insect-like  insignificance  in  the  eyes  that 
were  so  intolerably  heavy  in  their  regard.  His  own  eyes 
sank  to  the  neat,  small,  polished  boots  of  the  big  man. 


234         .     THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

who  stood  smoking  upon  the  white  lioness-skin.  To  the 
wearer  of  those  boots  he  was  merely  a  beetle  who  could 
be  crushed  by  them.  The  slight  ironical  smile  that  altered 
the  curve  of  the  mustache  said  as  much.  But  the  Minister's 
tone  was  suave  as  he  went  on: 

"I  think  I  have  grasped  the  mainspring  of  your  reason- 
ing. To  begin  with,  you  desire  to  accompany  one  of  our 
armies  on  the  campaign?" 

' '  Yes — sir !    Your  Excellency,  I  should  say ! ' ' 

A  lambent  light  of  humor  danced  in  the  blue  eyes 
that  were  bent  on  him.  The  faint  ironic  smile  broadened 
into  a  laugh.  The  Chancellor  took  his  cigar  from  his 
mouth,  knocked  off  the  ash,  and  said  quite  pleasantly: 

"And  deducting  from  this  premise,  I  conjecture  that — 
because  I  have  been  privileged  to  save  you  from  being 
trampled  to  death  under  the  feet  of  the  mob  upon  the 
Linden,  you  naturally  take  it  for  granted  that  I  would 
further  your  ambitions.  Gratitude,  one  of  your  English 
authors  has  admirably  defined  as  a  lively  sense  of  favors 
to  come.  ..." 

"I— I " 

P.  C.  Breagh,  who  had  been  for  some  time  shrinking  in 
his  own  estimation,  suddenly  saw  himself  in  a  newer, 
meaner  light.  His  torturer  went  on  in  mellifluous  Eng- 
lish: 

"I  do  not  know  that  any  classical  German  author  has 
defined  gratitude  quite  so  cleverly.  But  we  in  Pomerania 
have  a  folk-story  which  may  be  new  to  you."  He  drew 
sharply  at  his  cigar,  then  laid  it  glowing  on  the  edge  of 
the  stove: 

"You  speak  German  quite  passably,  so  I  will  tell  it  in 
our  Pomeranian  dialect.  If  this  is  not  done,  the  dialogue 
lacks  salt.  Thus  it  goes:  Wedig  Knips,  a  peasant  of 
Dalow,  whose  horses  wanted  watering,  went  one  winter's 
day  to  break  the  ice  that  covered  the  drinking-hole.  .  .  . 
'Bless  us!  what  have  we  here?'  says  he,  when  he  finds  a 
kerl  called  Peders,  frozen  in  the  ice,  with  his  head  down 
and  his  heels  up.  To  make  a  long  story  short,  he  chops 
out  Peders,  takes  him  home,  and  sets  him  up  to  thaw 
before  the  fire.  .  .  .  'Now,  neighbor,'  says  he,  'go  about 
your  business!' — 'How  can  I  when  my  jerkin  is  wet  and 
my  breeches  are  full  of  muddy  water?' — Says  "Wedig: 
'Poor  devil!  I  will  give  you  my  Sunday  trows!' — 'And  a 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  235 

jerkin  too,  for  you  saved  my  life,  you  must  remember!'  .  .  . 
Wedig  scratches  his  head,  but  hands  over  a  jerkin  with 
the  rest.  'Come,  now  be  off!'  says  he.  '  "Off,"  with 
my  under-pants  and  shirt  all  sopping!  Do  you  want  to 
kill  me — now  that  you  have  saved  my  life?' — So  Wedig 
pulls  a  wry  face,  but  hands  over  the  underclothes.  .  .  . 
'  Put  these  on  and  be  off,  we  are  busy  people  in  this  house ! ' 
'What,'  says  Peders,  'without  paying  me  the  value  of  the 
good  duds  spoiled  in  your  stinking  horsepond?' — 'Must  I 
pay  ?'...'  Certainly,  you  have  saved  my  life !  Nobody 
asked  you ! — I  had  thrown  myself  in  because  I  was  tired 
of  living.  Now  it  is  your  bounden  duty  to  make  things 
tolerable  for  me!' — 'How  make  things  tolerable?' — 'To 
begin  with,  I  want  a  cottage  to  live  in,  and  a  plot  of  kail- 
ground  to  it,  and  a  wee  pickle  furniture.' — 'But  I  have 
only  this  cottage,  and  the  bits  of  sticks  you  see!' — 'Well, 
give  me  them !  Didn  't  you  save  my  life  ? '  .  .  .  Wedig  gets 
confused,  sees  no  way  out  of  it.  '  The  devil ! '  says  he, 
'this  is  a  nice  affair!  However,  take  them,  man!' — 'I 
will  take  them,'  says  Peders,  'but  you  must  give  me  the 
cart  and  plow,  the  cow  and  the  two  horses?' — 'Himmel- 
Ttreuzbombenelement!  Have  I  got  to  give  you  all  that 
because  I  saved  your  life?' — 'Ay,  undoubtedly! — and  you 
must  let  me  have  your  wife  into  the  bargain.  It's  your 

bounden  duty '     'I  know!  because  I  saved  your  life! 

Shan't  make  such  a  mistake  next  time,  you  may  be  sure 
of  that!' — 'No,  but  you  did,  so  to  grumble  is  no  use.' — 
'Thunder!  my  old  girl  will  make  a  terrible  squawking.' — • 
*  Not  when  you  have  explained  how  you  saved  my  life ! '  .  .  . 
Wedig  scratches  his  head,  rubs  his  chin,  gets  a  bright 
idea.  .  .  .  'Help  me  to  explain  to  the  wife,  do  you  agree?' 
— '  Ay,  of  course !  What  is  it  you  want  me  to  say  to  her  ? ' 
— 'Oh!  say  nothing.  Only  let  me  show  her  exactly  how 
I  got  you  out  of  the  water-hole.' — 'Willingly!' — 'But  to 
do  that  I  must  put  you  back  just  a  minute ! ' — '  Put  me 
back?' — 'Only  for  a  minute.'  'Promise  when  I  cry 
"Genug!"  you'll  take  me  out  directly!' — 'All  right! 
Come  along!'  So  Wedig  takes  Peders  by  the  legs  and 
sticks  him  back  where  he  found  him,  driving  his  head 
well  down  into  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of  the  pond.  .  .  . 

So — he  never  cried  'Genug!'  and  Wedig  left  him  there. 

?  > 

The  hard  blue  eyes  that  had  been  all  alight  with  laughter, 


236  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  heavily  molded  face  that  had  unexpectedly  proved 
itself  capable  of  comic  changes,  the  voice  that,  as  the  droll 
dialogue  proceeded,  had  conveyed  with  slight,  admirably 
restrained  mimicry  the  complacent  assurance  of  the  knave 
and  the  dull  bewilderment  of  the  victim,  changed,  became 
the  Minister's  again.  He  said,  in  his  smoothest  tones: 

"I  cannot  put  you  back  into  the  crush  of  the  crowd, 
because  by  an  appeal  to  its  loyal  feelings  and  domestic 
instincts  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  disperse  it.  What  I  might 
do,  of  course,  is  to  deliver  you  to  the  tender  mercies  of  my 
servants,  to  whom, — when  you  brought  back  the  medal, — 
you  blustered  about  delivering  it  to  me  personally.  This 
not-exactly-very-clever  ruse  would  have  failed — had  I  not 
happened  to  step  upon  the  scene.  Your  English  policy  is 
often  more  fortunate  than  masterly.  .  .  .  Fortune  cer- 
tainly has  favored  you  to-day.  Not  in  the  fulfillment  of 
your  ambition  to  accompany  a  Prussian  Army  to  the  field 
of  action — that  is  a  wish  impossible  to  gratify.  For  we 
put  up  a  general  defense  against  the  presence  of  any  save 
the  most  highly  accredited  Correspondents,  and  the  War 
Minister  will  only  grant  Legitimations  to  two  or  three. 
But  in  obtaining  for  an  obscure  paragraphist  a  special 
interview  with  the  Prussian  Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs 
on  the  eve  of  a  world-crisis,  Fortune  has  certainly  favored 
you.  Go  back  now  to  your  hotel  and  write  your  article; 
then  telegraph  to  Fleet  Street  and  make  your  own  terms ! ' ' 

"I'll  be  shot  if  I  do!"  choked  out  P.  C.  Breagh,  flaming 
scarlet  to  his  hair-roots.  "And  I  thank  Your  Excellency 
for  a  lesson,  and  I  beg  to  take  my  leave!" 

"Why  does  he  go?  Why  does  he  talk  about  a  lesson?" 
asked  the  broad,  cynical  gaze  that  rested  on  him. 

As  though  he  had  spoken  aloud,  P.  C.  Breagh  answered : 

"Because  I  set  my  personal  advantage  above  common 
gratitude  and  honor.  Your  Excellency  lost  the  medal  in 
pulling  me  out  of  the  scrimmage  at  the  risk  of  your  own 
life,  and  when  I  found  the  thing — I  used  it, — exactly  as 
you  say!  True,  you'd  snubbed  me  when  I'd  tried  to 
thank  you !  yet  I  did  believe  your  having  saved  me  might 
help  me  in  some  way.  .  .  .  But  it  would  be  better  to  cadge 
in  the  dustbins  for  a  living,  than  make  money  out  of  in- 
formation gained  by  trickery.  And  I  apologize  sincerely 
for  having  been  such  a  cad!" 

"  'Cad'  is  the  slang  for  vulgarian,   is  it  not?"     He 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  237 

added :  ' '  Yes,  they  inculcate  a  code  of  honor  at  the  Eng- 
lish public  schools." 

The  voice  grated.  P.  C.  Breagh  hated  its  owner.  But 
he  answered,  looking  squarely  in  the  bulldog  face  that 
bent  on  him : 

' '  They  do,  and  I  am  sorry  to  have  broken  at  least  one  of 
its  articles.  May  I  wish  Your  Excellency  good  afternoon ! ' ' 

The  speaker  bowed,  not  clumsily,  and  turned  to  quit  the 
room,  when  a  ferocious  growl  behind  him,  and  the  scraping 
of  heavy  claws  on  slippery  parquet  pulled  round  his  head. 
Savage,  red-rimmed  eyes  challenged,  and  the  bared  gleam- 
ing fangs  of  a  huge  boarhound  couched  at  length  under  a 
wrought-iron  sofa  at  the  west  end  of  the  longish  room 
menaced  the  stranger's  throat: 

1 '  Down,  Tyras ! ' '  ordered  the  Minister  harshly,  and  with 
a  deep  groan  the  heavy  brute  dropped  its  nose  between  its 
forepaws,  and  lay  still,  shaken  by  occasional  rumbling 
growls. 

"You  see,"  said  the  Minister,  laughing,  "that  I  can  af- 
ford to  dispense  with  the  services  of  detectives  when  this 
good  servant  is  at  hand.  Come,  sit  down  another  moment. 
...  I  am  really  willing  to  help  you.  .  .  .  You  have  not 
come  so  badly  as  you  imagine  out  of  the  affair ! ' ' 

"But  I  have  said  I  will  not  write  the  article,  and  I  am 
intruding  on  Your  Excellency's  privacy."  The  soul  of 
P.  C.  Breagh  yearned  for  the  freedom  of  the  streets.  To 
be  shut  up  in  the  study  of  the  greatest  of  living  Ministers, 
— set  beak-to-beak  with  the  man  who  was  occupying  the 
attention  of  Europe — the  master-mind  in  statecraft,  who 
used  blunt  truth  as  a  weapon  to  beat  down  diplomatic 
falsehood,  and  comported  himself  amidst  the  striving 
parties  of  his  national  Parliament  as  a  giant  surrounded 
by  dwarfs ; — had  seemed,  previously,  a  thing  to  boast  of — a 
dazzling  feather  in  the  cap  of  achievement.  Now  it  was  no 
triumph,  but  a  torture.  He  writhed  under  those  keen, 
amused,  analytical  glances,  knowing  himself  worthy  to  be 
so  despised. 

"I  have  twenty  minutes  in  which  to  refresh  and  rest, 
not  having  eaten  or  sat  down  since  ten  o'clock  this  morn- 
ing. You  have  had  ten — I  will  give  you  another  five.  Sit 
down  again  there!" 

Tyras  emitted  another  savage  growl  as  though  in  sup- 
port of  his  owner's  authority,  and  P.  C.  Breagh,  loathing 


238  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

his  host  even  more  intensely  than  he  hated  P.  C.  Breagh, 
obeyed  the  imperious  hand  that  pointed  to  the  chair  he  had 
vacated,  and  sat  down,  white-gilled  now,  and  sick  with 
longing  to  be  out  of  this  presence  into  which  he  had  thrust 
himself — beyond  the  reach  of  the  icy,  contemptuous  tones 
and  the  arrogant,  domineering  eyes. 

The  Chancellor  had  turned  away  to  pull  at  one  of  the 
red  woolen  bell-ropes  that  hung  on  either  side  of  the  fire- 
place, shabby  things,  threadbare  with  use,  like  the  Persian 
carpet  that  was  trodden  out  in  paths  by  the  spurred  feet 
of  the  man  who  stood  for  Prussia;  worn  like  the  leather 
cushions  of  the  great  wrought-iron  sofa,  under  which  the 
great  man's  faithful  attendant  couched,  with  one  eye  on 
the  familiar  face,  and  the  other  on  the  strange  one  that 
might  mask  an  enemy. 

Above  the  sofa,  beneath  a  trophy  of  fencing-swords  and 
masks,  reigning  over  a  rack  supporting  a  number  of  red 
and  white  military  undress-caps  in  all  stages  of  wear,  and 
another  containing  a  collection  of  pipe-sticks  and  un- 
mounted pipe-heads,  hung  the  half-length  oil-portrait  of  a 
beautiful  girl  in  ball-dress.  Below  was  a  large-framed 
photograph  of  a  noble-looking  woman,  with  a  mass  of  black 
braided  hair  framing  a  long,  serious  face,  with  grave  dark 
eyes,  thick  straight  nose,  and  full-curved,  humorous  lips 
recalling  published  engravings  of  the  English  author  of 
''Adam  Bede. "  Probably  it  was  the  Countess — that  same 
Fraulein  Johanna  Puttkammer  who  had  been  hugged  under 
the  gaze  of  her  assembled  family.  She  looked  strong, 
serene  and  courageous,  fit — thought  P.  C.  Breagh — to  be 
the  wife  of  a  man  destined  by  Fate  and  framed  by  nature 
to  become  a  leader  of  men.  Also,  she  looked  like  a  woman 
who  could  love  with  old-world,  elemental,  forceful  passion. 
She  had  bestowed  such  love  upon  this  man — who  had 
begun  life  as  a  roaring,  hard-drinking  young  Pomeranian 
squire,  well  worthy  of  the  sobriquet  of  "Mad  Bismarck," 
bestowed  upon  him  by  his  native  county. 

She  had  sifted  the  gold  out  of  the  sand.  .  .  .  She  had 
never  openly  displayed  her  influence.  .  .  .  All  the  same  it 
had  been  there,  guiding,  sustaining,  controlling.  .  .  .  lie 
had  written  to  her,  years  after,  when  he  had  begun  in 
earnest  to  be  a  power  in  politics.  .  .  .  "You  see  what  you 
have  made  me!  What  should  I  have  done  without  you?" 


THE   MAN   OE   IRON  239 

Arrogant,  harsh,  domineering,  merciless,  as  his  enemies 
had  reason  to  term  him,  there  must  be  something  noble  in 
'the  man  who  had  written  like  that.  He  was  said  to  be  a 
kind,  if  not  over-indulgent,  father  to  his  two  big  sons,  even 
then  serving  as  private  soldiers  in  a  well-known  regiment 
of  Dragoon  Guards,  and  to  be  worshiped  by  his  daughter, 
a  feminine  copy  of  himself,  if  that  oil-portrait  were  any- 
thing like.  .  .  . 

"Have  you  taken  any  food  to-day?  ..." 

The  interrogation  brought  P.  C.  Breagh's  head  round. 
A  servant  must  have  appeared,  and  gone,  and  come  again 
in  answer  to  the  bell-summons.  For  on  a  clear  corner  of 
an  etagere  otherwise  piled  with  official  papers  and  pamph- 
lets, stood  a  tray,  bearing  glasses  and  a  vast  crystal  jug  of 
creaming  golden-hued  nectar  with  miniature  icebergs  float- 
ing on  the  surface;  and  several  dishes  of  rolls,  split,  pro- 
fusely buttered,  and  lined  with  something  savory,  the  sight 
and  scent  of  which  awoke  tender  yearnings  within.  .  .  . 

"No! — I  thought  not.  Drink  this  and  eat  some  of 
these  sandwiches.  I  myself  have  fasted  longer  than  is 
agreeable ! ' ' 

And  a  huge  goblet  of  the  ice-cold  creaming  nectar  was 
handed  to  P.  C.  Breagh,  who  immediately  realized  that  his 
tongue  and  palate  were  dry  as  the  sun-baked  asphalt  of 
the  Linden. 

"Prosit!"  said  his  host,  and  drained  his  glass,  adding, 
as  the  guest  duly  responded  according  to  the  classic  formula 
and  drank :  ' '  You  are  University -bred,  I  see !  What  Alma 
Mater  had  the  preference?  Schwarz-Brettingen !  .  .  .  Ah, 
they  thought  very  badly  of  me  there  about  the  time  of 
the  Luxembourg  Garrison  Question.  Nearly  all  the  little 
foxes  barked  at  me  as  I  passed  through.  However,  we  are 
now  reconciled,  and  more  than  a  thousand  of  the  students 
have  applied  to  serve  as  volunteers  in  this  war, — there's 
an  item  of  interest  for  your  paper! — though  you  have 
Quixotically  determined,  you  say,  not  to  make  use  of  any 
information  that  I  may  be  enabled  to  offer  you.  All 
Quixotism  is  weakness,  in  my  estimation ;  a  man,  according 
to  my  code,  should  pursue  his  advantage  where  he  finds  it 
irrespective  of  ethical  laws  or  religious  prejudice.  Now  eat 
some  of  these  stuffed  rolls.  Here  are  caviar,  smoked  goose- 
breast,  Westphalian  ham  and  liver-sausage.  You  see  I 
set  you  an  example! — and  a  would-be  campaigner  should 


240  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

be  able  to  sleep  soundly  under  any  and  all  conditions ;  and 
eat  whenever  anything  eatable  is  obtainable,  with  un- 
flinching appetite ! ' ' 

The  savory  rolls  were  vanishing  under  the  speaker's 
repeated  attacks,  and  the  golden  tide  in  the  great  crystal 
decanter  was  sinking  visibly.  He  said,  lifting  and  hold- 
ing it  so  that  between  the  light  of  the  green-shaded  table- 
lamp  and  the  red  glow  of  sunset  pouring  through  the 
unblinded  western  windows,  the  liquid  in  it  shone  ruby 
and  emerald.  .  .  . 

"Come,  let  me  fill  your  glass  again,  and  then  I  shall  send 
you  about  your  business.  Absolved,  you  understand,  from 
that  ridiculous  vow  of  yours — and  with  a  magic  talisman 
to  enable  you  to  use  your  eyes." 

The  steady  hand  set  down  the  now  emptied  jug,  and 
took  from  the  red  marble  mantelshelf  a  small  and  perfectly- 
finished  pair  of  field-glasses,  covered  in  black  Russia 
leather  and  mounted  in  ivory.  An  inlaid  silver  shield  bore 
a  monogram,  "O.  v.  B.-S.,"  and  a  date. 

"You  can  shoot  with  a  pistol? — Good! — then  I  should 
advise  you  to  buy  one,  if  possible.  A  revolver  of  the 
American  Colt's  invention — six-barreled — a  feature  which 
increases  weight  in  proportion  as  it  adds  to  effectiveness — 
would  be  useful.  Indeed,  I  carry  one  myself!  One  day 
they  will  turn  out  such  things  with  one  barrel — but  we 
must  wait  for  that,  I  am  afraid.  Here  is  the  case  belonging 
to  the  glasses,  with  a  strap  to  sling  it  round  your  shoulders 
— and  one  thing  more  I  will  give  you — though  I  am  less 
certain  about  its  ultimate  usefulness!" 

The  writing-table  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  He 
moved  to  it  with  one  of  his  long,  heavy  strides,  sat  down 
— dipped  quill  in  ink — and  penned  a  few  lines  rapidly, 
glancing  at  the  sunburned,  freckled  face  as  though  to 
refresh  his  memory — holding  up  an  imperious  hand  for 
silence  when  the  recipient  of  the  field-glasses  seemed  about 
to  protest  against  the  value  of  the  gift. 

"Your  nationality? — 'British.'  Name,  'Patrick  Carolan 
Breagh — pronounced  "Brack."  Your  height? — Be  very 
accurate.  One  half-inch  too  much  or  too  little  might  bring 
you  into  trouble  of  a  serious  kind.  'Five  feet  nine'  .^. 
you  promise  to  be  taller.  Your  age  .  .  .  twenty-three  last 
January.  .  .  .  Shoulders  broad,  good  muscular  develop- 
ment. Your  hair  .  .  .  reddish,  is  it  not?  .  .  .  You  have 


THE   MAN  OE  IRON  241 

gray  eyes  with  what  the  French  would  call  taches  of 
yellow  in  them.  Complexion  fresh,  considerably  freckled. 
Nose  short  and  straight,  ears  small,  teeth  white  and  regular. 
Chin  square  and  with  a  cleft — weaklings  have  not  such 
chins!  ..." 

He  added  a  brief  sentence  to  the  hastily  scrawled  de- 
scription, signed  and  blotted  it,  rose  and  came  to  P.  C. 
Breagh  and  thrust  it  in  his  hand. 

' '  Do  not  thank  me !  It  is  my  passing  whim  to  help  you 
— regard  it  in  that  light.  As  to  this  pass,  safe-conduct  or 
whatever  one  may  call  it — it  may  forward  you  or  hinder 
you.  .  .  .  Potztausend!  I  am  a  mere  officer  of  Cuiras- 
siers of  the  Landwehr — General  by  courtesy — not  General- 
issimo! .  .  .  You,  Bucher!  .  .  .  What  is  there  wanted 
now?  .  .  ." 

For  a  scratch  on  the  door-panel  had  been  succeeded  by 
the  flurried  entrance  of  the  little  Councillor  of  Legation, 
breathing  hard,  and  red  in  the  face.  He  gabbled  in  Span- 
ish: 

"Pardon,  Your  Excellency,  that  I  enter  without  knock- 
ing. But  His  Highness  the  Crown  Prince  is  coming  up- 
stairs! ..." 

And  almost  in  the  same  instant,  as  Tyras  uttered  a  deep 
"muff"  of  friendly  greeting,  the  open  doorway  was  filled 
by  the  stateliest  and  most  martial  figure  in  Europe,  and  a 
pleasant,  manly  voice  said : 

"Not  finding  you  in  your  official  quarters  below-stairs, 
I  ventured,  my  dear  Count  Bismarck,  to  follow  you  to 
your  private  study.  It  is  a  question  of  whether  Le  Sourd 

delivered  the  war-gauntlet  from  Paris,  or Pardon! 

I  had  no  idea  that  you  were  not  alone!" 

The  tall,  broad-chested,  golden-bearded  Viking  in  the 
undress  uniform  of  the  First  Regiment  of  Guards  touched 
his  cap  in  acknowledgment  of  P.  C.  Breagh 's  respectful 
salutation.  Then,  as  in  obedience  to  a  glance  from  the 
Minister,  the  lean  claws  of  the  little  Councillor  closed  upon 
P.  C.  Breagh 's  arm,  and  he  was  plucked  from  the  room, 
the  Prince  asked,  glancing  after  the  queer  couple : 

"May  one  ask  who  your  young  friend  is?"  and  got 
answer : 

"It  is  only  an  English  schoolboy,  Your  Royal  Highness, 
— who  thirsts  to  try  his  hand  at  "War-correspondence — 
having  had  a  few  articles  printed  in  some  London  rag.  And 


242  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

this  being  so,  he  applies  to  me,  who  am  the  least  leisured 
person  in  His  Majesty's  dominions- — for  a  moment  of  my 
spare  time!  ..." 

"It  is  annoying,  my  dear  Count,"  answered  the  mellow- 
voiced  Viking,  ' '  but  cannot  your  people  keep  such  trouble- 
some persons  outside  ? ' ' 

The  Minister  returned,  laughing: 

' '  He  caught  me  on  my  doorstep, — as  the  polecat  waylaid 
the  badger! — and  as  he  brought  back  a  decoration  I  had 
lost,  and  which  he,  luckily  for  himself,  had  found! — I 
could  not  refuse  him  a  minute's  interview.  But  with 
regard  to  Your  Royal  Highness 's  question  of  an  instant 
since — Le  Sourd,  the  French  Charge  d 'Affaires,  placed  the 
Emperor's  declaration  of  war  in  my  hands  about  an  hour 
after  the  opening  of  Council  in  the  Palace  to-day." 

Said  the  Prince : 

"Unhappy  man!  driven  to  risk  the  loss  of  an  Empire 
that  he  may  continue  to  rule  a  nation  of  enemies.  One 
can  hardly  doubt  the  issue — yet  at  what  cost  of  lives  shall 
we  not  purchase  victory ! ' ' 

Bismarck  said  in  harsh,  metallic  tones,  bending  his  brows 
upon  the  Prince,  who  all  the  world  knew  loved  peace,  and 
loathed  the  thought  of  the  red  months  of  strife  that  were 
approaching : 

"Your  Royal  Highness  is  aware  that  I  look  upon,  this 
war  as  necessary,  and  that  I  should  not  have  returned  to 
Varzin  without  giving  in  my  resignation  to  His  Majesty 
had  the  issue  been  other  than  what  it  is.  ...  As  for  this 
weak-backed  Napoleon,  this  Pierrot  stuffed  with  bran, — 
who  is  kept  in  an  upright  attitude  only  by  the  slaps  I  deal 
him  on  one  cheek  and  the  buffets  the  Monarchists  and  the 
Revolutionists  lend  him  on  the  other! — it  will  be  better 
for  him  to  meet  his  end  by  a  bullet  or  a  sword-thrust  on 
the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  than  to  be  blown  to  pieces  by  some 
bomb  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  or  to  die  of  apoplexy  in  the 
bedroom  of  some  nymph  of  the  theater-coulisses!" 

He  drew  himself  to  his  full  height  and,  folding  his 
powerful  arms  upon  his  breast,  said,  looking  full  at  the 
Prince,  who  had  declined  a  seat  and  who  was  standing 
near  the  window,  his  hair  and  beard  glowing  golden-red 
in  the  full  rays  of  the  setting  sun: 

"Your  Royal  Highness  speaks  of  the  effusion  of  blood. 
I  am  of  those  who  have  drawn  the  sword  in  the  service  of 


THE    MAN   OF    IRON  243 

their  King  and  country.  I  do  not  regard  war  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  man  who  stops  at  home.  More  than 
this!  .  .  .  His  Majesty  is  not  the  only  father  who  has  a 
son  serving  in  our  Army.  ...  I  have  two.  Herbert  and 
Bill.  .  .  ." 

A  pale  purplish  tint  suffused  his  heavy  face  and  crept 
to  the  summit  of  his  rugged  forehead.  His  fierce  blue  eyes 
dimmed.  He  said,  in  slightly  muffled  tones : 

"I  am  not  given  to  pompous  phrases.  Yet  if  German 
unity  can  only  be  brought  about  by  a  great  national  war 
waged  against  our  near-hand  enemy — our  old,  cunning, 
sleepless  foe — I  hail  that  war,  even  though  it  leave  me 
without  posterity!  If  the  gulf  that  divides  the  Northern 
and  Southern  sections  of  the  Fatherland  can  be  better 
bridged  by  my  boys '  dead  bodies  ...  I  would  give  them  as 
freely  as  I  would  give  my  own ! ' ' 

A  spasm  twisted  his  under-jaw.  He  said,  laughing  in 
his  stern  way : 

' '  Three  long-legged  Bismarcks  should  equal  one  eighteen- 
foot-seven  plank.  And  I  speak  not  only  for  myself.  My 
wife  would  echo  me. ' ' 

Said  the  Prince  in  his  cordial  way : 

"My  mother  has  a  great  admiration  for  Her  Excellency. 
My  wife,  too,  speaks  of  her  as  a  woman  of  antique  nobility 
of  mind. ' '  He  continued,  with  a  smile  that  curved  the  bold, 
frank  mouth  under  the  glittering  mustache  into  lines  of 
exceeding  pleasantness:  "And  her  personal  solicitude  for 
Your  Excellency  pleases  my  father  much ! ' ' 

The  heavy  face  that  opposed  him  lost  its  dogged,  set 
expression.  The  Minister  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"So!  I  have  been  waiting  to  hear  somewhat  of  that 
voluble  telegram  of  hers  to  Abeken:  'Pray  ask  the  King 
not  to  bother  Count  Bismarck  about  State  matters  just  now, 
when  he  is  taking  Carlsbad  waters  for  the  gout!' ' 

"Ha,  ha!"  The  Prince  joined  gaily  in  the  laughter. 
"The  Councillor  was  working  with  the  King  and  myself, 
when  he  received  that  wire.  It  came  with  a  sheaf  of 
others — he  read  it  aloud  without  a  change  of  expression. 
.  .  .  .Then  you  should  have  seen  his  face  ...  a  study  for 
a  comedian.  ..." 

The  Minister  said,  still  smiling : 

"My  wife  pours  many  confidences  of  the  domestic  sort 
into  Abeken 's  bosom.  She  said  to  him  during  the  Constitu- 


244  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

tional  Conflict  of  '66  ...  'Bismarck  cares  really  nothing 
at  all  about  these  stupid  political  matters.  A  cabbage  well 
grown,  or  a  fir-tree  well  planted,  means  more  to  him  than 
the  Indemnity  Bill.'  Yet  when  the  Bill  passed  she  was 
all-triumphant.  And  to-day  she  remarked  to  me:  'War 
is  horrible  to  me  on  principle.  But  it  would  be  equally 
horrible  to  me  if  you  said  to  me  to-morrow:  "All  is  over! 
— we  do  not  fight!  .  .  ."  '  I  made  her  angry  by  telling  her 
that  one  might  parody  in  application  to  the  mental  atti- 
tude of  her  sex  the  lines  of  the  English  Poet  Laureate, 
and  say: 

"Her  reason  rooted  in  unreason  stood." 

"When  our  German  women  become  too  highly  edu- 
cated," said  the  fair-haired  giant,  ''love  will  take  wing 
for  a  land  where  the  culture  of  the  feminine  intellect  is 
still  unpopular.  We  males  hold  our  supremacy  on  the 
very  insecure  tenure  of  a  carefully  inculcated  belief  that, 
being  men,  we  must  be  wise ! ' ' 

Said  the  Minister: 

"There  is  a  Pomeranian  proverb  bearing  on  that  ques- 
tion. 'In  the  house  where  a  strip  of  green  hide  hangs 
handy,  the  wife  will  never  know  better  than  her  old  man!' ' 

"Unless  she  happened  to  be  the  stronger  of  the  two, 
bodily  as  well  as  mentally,  dear  Count,"  the  Prince  re- 
joined; "in  which  case  the  husband  would  be  well  advised 
to  accept  the  inferior  place.  For  against  brute-strength 
and  brains  combined,  there  is  no  remedy  but  patience. ' ' 

Bismarck  retorted: 

"Possibly — but  what  if  the  muscular  brute  with  the 
brains  possesses  a  share  of  patience  also  ?  There  is  nothing 
like  knowing  how  to  wait — I  assure  Your  Royal  Highness ! ' ' 

The  Prince  looked  at  the  great  figure  topped  by  the  stolid 
bulldog  face,  and  recalled  something  that  the  English 
Princess,  his  wife,  had  said  to  him  that  day: 

"This  fearful  struggle  will  set  the  coping-stone  upon 
that  man 's  colossal  labors  and  ambitions ! ' ' 

But  he  was  all  grave,  gracious  cordiality  as  they  passed 
from  the  lighter  vein  of  talk  to  serious  questions,  though, 
as  he  took  leave  of  the  Minister  at  the  hall-door  and 
stepped  into  his  waiting  carriage,  he  said  to  himself 
mournfully : 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  245 

"Alix  was  right.  He  has  what  he  has  waited  and 
schemed  for.  To  light  this  international  conflagration  he 
would  have  ventured  down  to  fetch  a  burning  brand  from 
the  nethermost  Hell.  And  what  oceans  of  blood  will  be 
poured  out  before  the  fire  may  be  extinguished — none 
knows  but  God  alone ! ' ' 


XXIX 

VON  MOLTKE,  the  ancient  war-wizard,  went  home  from  the 
Council-Extraordinary  to  his  private  quarters  at  the  offices 
of  the  Great  General  Staff.  He  dispatched  the  three-word 
telegram,  and  the  vast  machine  began  to  work.  .  .  . 

All  had  been  ready  for  two  years.  Nothing  was  left  to 
finish  at  the  last  moment.  Not  a  speck  of  rust  marred 
shaft  or  spindle  or  bearing,  not  a  drop  of  oil  was  clogged 
in  any  slot. 

Days  back,  the  Heads  of  Departments  had  been  recalled 
by  a  brief  telegram  from  the  Chief  who  knew  how  to  be 
taciturn  in  seven  languages.  Now,  while  in  Berlin,  as  in 
every  other  city  and  town  of  Prussia  Proper  and  her 
Eleven  Provinces,  palaces,  mansions,  restaurants  and  cafes, 
beer-gardens  and  schnaps-cellars  blazed  with  gas  and 
resounded  with  the  clinking  of  glasses,  and  people  sat  late 
into  the  grilling  July  night  discussing  and  rediscussing 
that  special  supplement  of  the  North  German  Gazette, — 
which  was  being  distributed  gratuitously  by  hundreds  of 
thousands, — predicting  the  next  move  of  the  Man  of  Iron, 
and  the  latest  ruse  of  the  Man  of  Paris, — consuming  tons  of 
sausage,  caviar,  pickled  salmon,  herrings  in  salad,  and 
potted  tunny,  with  strawberries  and  other  fruits  and  sweet 
dishes,  all  washed  down  by  floods  of  cooling  beer,  or  iced 
Moselle  and  champagne — the  numberless  huge  barracks 
and  other  military  establishments  displayed  another  kind 
of  activity. 

Here  no  outbursts  of  patriotic  song  and  festivity  checked 
the  rapid,  organized,  methodical  scurry  of  warlike  prepara- 
tion. Soldiers  ran  about  like  busy  ants,  purposeful  and 
unblundering.  Long  trains  of  Army  Service  carts  and 
wagons  streamed  in  at  divers  lofty  gates,  to  emerge  at 
others  after  the  briefest  interval,  heavily  laden  with  Army 


246  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

stores,  Army  baggage,  War  material  of  all  kinds.  Night 
and  day,  huge  Government  factories  and  foundries  dithered 
and  roared,  filling  up  newly  made  vacuums  in  those  huge 
magazines  and  storehouses  which  must  always  be  kept  full. 
In  the  gloomy  dominions  of  the  Iron  King,  Herr  Krupp, 
that  stout-loined  Teuton  who  begat  great  guns  instead  of 
tall  sons,  and  had  them  godfathered  by  Prussian  Royalty — 
what  forests  of  tall  chimneys  belched  forth  smoke,  canopy- 
ing begrimed  and  prosperous  Westphalian  towns,  populated 
by  innumerable  swarthy  toilers  in  the  gigantic  iron  and 
steel  foundries!  At  Essen,  where  mountains  of  coal  kiss 
the  sooty  skies,  and  heavy  locomotives  ceaselessly  grind 
over  networks  of  shining  steel  rails,  dragging  strings  of 
trucks,  containing  yet  more  fuel  for  the  ever-hungry  fur- 
naces,— within  an  impregnable  rampart  of  solid  masonry,— 
he  dwelt  in  a  Babylonian  palace.  The  panting  of  innumer- 
able steam-power  engines,  the  banging,  moaning,  crashing, 
groaning,  and  grinding  of  forges,  lathes,  and  planing-ma- 
chines;  cutting,  shaping,  boring,  and  polishing  machines; 
with  the  beating  of  sixty-two  steam-hammers,  of  all  weights 
up  to  that  of  fifty  tons,  which  cost  £100,000  to  manufacture, 
sounded  like  a  cannon  whenever  it  was  used,  and  was  kept 
working  without  pause,  so  as  not  to  lose  a  fraction  of  the 
interest  of  the  capital  sunk  in  it — made  his  concert  by  day, 
and  by  night  served  for  his  serenade  and  lullaby.-  He  made 
laws  for  the  control  of  his  grimy  subjects,  this  Briareus  of 
ten  thousand  hands — and  enforced  them  by  the  aid  of  his 
own  police  and  magistrates.  With  orders  in  course  of 
execution  for  Turkey,  China,  Egypt,  Russia,  and  Spain,  he 
was  yet  able  to  deliver  eighty  cannon  per  week  to  the 
different  artillery  depots  of  his  Fatherland.  His  steel, 
tempered  by  his  secret  process,  the  new  ore  being  brought 
him  from  his  Spanish  mines  by  his  own  fleet  c "  *ansports, 
surpassed  even  Bessemer 's.  Yet  he  was  not  a  conceited 
or  purse-proud  man.  By  the  chief  entrance  of  the  biggest 
of  all  his  factories  stood  the  little  soot-blackened  forge 
where  forty  years  before  young  Krupp  had  labored  with 
his  father  and  a  couple  of  workmen.  Small  wonder  the 
powerful  Iron  King  had  honor  from  his  over-lord. 

Conceive  next  the  well-ordered  bustle  at  the  headquarters 
of  the  different  Army  Corps,  when  the  withered  finger  of 
the  Warlock  pressed  upon  the  button,  and  the  spark  of 


THE    MAN   DE   IRON  247 

electricity  leaped  along  a  thousand  wires,  carrying  with  it 
the  vitalizing  word.  .  .  .  Moltke's  methods  were  then  fire- 
new,  and  made  the  world  sit  up. 

You  might  have  seen  the  Reserve  men  of  the  Twelve 
Provinces — whose  summons  for  assembly  lay  ready  in  the 
Landwehr  office  of  every  city,  town,  village,  or  hamlet — • 
streaming  in  at  the  district  depots,  bringing  each  Line 
regiment  up  to  war-strength  (nearly  double  its  numbers  in 
time  of  peace).  Mobilization  was  no  foreign  word  to  them, 
for  once  a  year,  after  Schmidt,  the  field-laborer,  had  done 
getting  in  the  harvest,  and  when  Schultz,  the  bank-clerk, 
and  Kunz,  the  chemist's  assistant,  had  got  their  annual 
autumn  holiday,  Schmidt,  Schultz,  and  Kunz  were  accus- 
tomed to  perform  a  series  of  carefully  rehearsed  physical 
exercises  ending  in  maneuvers,  and  a  safe  if  inglorious 
return  to  the  domestic  hearth. 

Schmidt,  Schultz,  and  Kunz  were  only  remarkable  by 
their  unlikeness  to  each  other — Schmidt  being  the  brown, 
uncouth,  and  unshaven  husband  of  a  stout  wife  and  nu- 
merous tow-headed  babes.  Schultz  was  more  recently  mar- 
ried to  a  young  lady  remotely  connected  on  the  maternal 
side  with  a  family  possessing  the  right  to  inscribe  the  aris- 
tocratic prefix  ' '  von ' '  before  its  surname.  The  couple  lived 
frugally  on  Herr  Schultz 's  salary  of  thirty  pounds  a  year, 
somewhere  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  select  quarter  of  the 
country  town  (some  four  miles  distant  from  Schmidt's 
native  village) — while  Kunz,  the  graduate  of  a  University, 
and  author  of  a  text-book  of  Analytical  Chemistry,  sold 
impartially  to  both,  squills,  rhubarb-tincture,  and  porous 
plasters  over  the  counter  of  his  employer 's  shop. 

Served  by  the  Burgomaster's  clerk,  or  a  wooden-faced 
orderly- c**  "I'oral,  with  the  compelling  bit  of  paper,  Schmidt, 
Schultz,  and  Kunz,  having  taken  farewell  embraces  of  their 
nearest  and  dearest,  would  sling  over  their  shoulders  can- 
vas wallets  containing  a  lump  of  sausage,  a  shirt  or  so,  a 
huge  chunk  of  bread,  white  or  black,  with  a  bottle  contain- 
ing wine  or  schnaps,  and  stowing  next  their  skins  leather 
purses  containing  a  few  coins,  and  a  parchment  volume  re- 
sembling the  English  soldier 's  ' '  small  book, ' '  would  hasten 
by  rail  or  road  in  the  direction  of  their  regimental  ren- 
dezvous, toward  which  bourne  the  Reserve  contingent  of 
other  towns,  villages,  and  hamlets  would  also  betake  them- 


248  THE   MAN,   OF   IRON 

selves,  until  the  roads  were  blackened  with  their  tramping 
bodies  and  the  trains  would  be  packed  chock-full.  Arrived 
at  Headquarters,  batch  after  batch, — subsequently  to  a 
brief  but  exhaustive  medical  overhauling — would  be  dis- 
patched to  the  arsenal,  where  attaching  themselves  to  a 
tremendous  queue  of  other  Schmidts,  Schultzes,  and 
Kunzes,  they  would  mark  time  in  double-file  outside  a  vast, 
grim,  barn-like  structure,  until  the  moment  arrived  for 
entering ;  when  with  well-accustomed  quickness,  each  would 
find  his  way  to  a  certain  hook  or  group  of  hooks,  sur- 
mounted with  his  regimental  number,  from  which  de- 
pended a  certain  familiar  uniform,  with  accoutrements 
and  weapons  equally  well  known. 

Picture  innumerable  alleys  formed  by  these  dangling 
uniforms,  radiating  away  to  the  point  of  distance, — and 
suppose  Schmidt,  Schultz,  and  Kunz  equipped  in  something 
answering  to  the  twinkling  of  a  Teutonic  eye. 

In — supposing  Schmidt,  Schultz,  or  Kunz  to  belong  to 
the  Infantry — a  pair  of  dark  gray  unmentionables,  red- 
corded  down  the  side-seams,  and  a  pair  of  mid-leg-high 
boots,  very  roomy  and  strong.  Inside  the  boots  were  no 
stockings,  tallowed  linen  bands  being  bound  about  the  legs 
and  feet.  A  single-breasted  tunic  of  dark  blue  cloth  with 
red  facings  followed,  and  a  flat  forage-cap  of  blue  cloth 
with  a  red  band,  or  a  glazed  black  leather  helmet  with  a 
brazen  Prussian  eagle  front-plate  and  a  brass  spike-top. 
With  the  addition  of  a  zinc  label,  slung  round  the  neck, 
and  bearing  a  man's  name,  number,  company,  and  regi- 
ment, an  overcoat  made  into  a  sausage  and  tied  together  at 
the  ends,  a  canvas  haversack,  glass  leather-covered  canteen, 
a  pipeclayed  waistbelt  with  two  cartridge-boxes  of  black 
leather,  and  a  knapsack  of  calf-skin  tanned  with  the  hair, 
stretched  upon  a  wooden  frame,  and  slung  by  two  pipe- 
clayed straps  hooked  to  the  waistbelt  in  front  and  then 
passing  over  the  shoulders.  Two  shorter  straps,  going 
under  the  armpits,  would  be  fastened  to  the  knapsack, 
which  had  a  receptacle  for  a  packet  of  twenty  cartridges 
at  either  end  of  it.  Within,  suppose  the  usual  soldier's 
kit,  with  spoon,  knife,  fork,  comb,  and  shaving-glass;  and 
on  top  imagine  a  galvanized  iron  pot,  holding  about  three 
quarts,  with  a  tight-fitting  cover  which  became,  at  need,  a 
frying-pan.  Arm  with  a  strong  waistbelt-sword  about  fif- 
teen inches  long,  an  unburnished  needle-gun  heavily 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  249 

grease-coated,  and  Schmidt,  Schultz,  and  Kunz,  having 
hung  their  civilian  garments  on  the  hooks  that  erst  sup- 
ported the  martial  panoply,  tugged  at  a  final  buckle-strap, 
wheeled  and  passed  out,  transformed,  by  yet  another  door. 

Always  the  three  had  known  that  an  hour  would  come 
when  these  familiar  exercises  would  not  end  with  half-a- 
dozen  exceedingly  strenuous  field-days,  and  a  return, — on 
the  part  of  Schmidt  and  Schultz, — to  the  arms  of  their 
respective  wives.  Schmidt,  on  whose  breast  shone  the 
war-medal  of  '66,  and  who  must  now  be  addressed  as 
"Herr  Sergeant"  by  his  social  superiors,  seemed  not  to 
mind  at  all,  though  he  swore  at  his  boots,  quite  unjustly, 
for  pinching.  But  the  bank-clerk's  espousals  were  too 
recent,  and  his  first  experience  of  paternity  too  near  at 
hand,  for  any  display  of  hardihood,  while  Herr  Kunz  was 
but  newly  betrothed  to  the  apothecary's  daughter  Mina, 
and  could  not  forget  how  the  tears  had  rolled  out  of  her 
large  blue  eyes  at  the  prospect  of  parting  with  her  beloved 
Carl. 

Therefore,  although  the  mouths  of  the  trio  were,  when 
not  professionally  shut,  busily  engaged  in  bellowing  "Die 
Wacht  am  Rhein,"  "Ich  bin  ein  Preusse,"  and  other 
patriotic  songs,  or  sending  up  deafening  "Hochs"  for  the 
King,  the  Crown  Prince,  Prince  Friedrich  Karl,  "Our 
Moltke, ' '  and  another  public  personage  recently  very  much 
elevated  in  the  popular  esteem, — the  mental  visions  of  at 
least  two  of  them  were  occupied  with  prophetic  visions  in 
which  blue-eyed  sweethearts  pined  and  faded  away  out  of 
grief  for  absent  betrotheds,  and  young  wives  wept  over 
empty  cradles  until  they  too  expired,  with  faltering  mes- 
sages of  love  for  the  husband  so  far  distant  on  their  dying 
lips.  .  .  . 

"Sapperlot!  What  in  thunder  are  you  gaping  at,  you 
gimpel,  you?"  a  rough,  loud  voice  would  shout,  and  a 
terrific  thump  from  the  hard  and  heavy  hand  of  Sergeant 
Schmidt  would  visit  the  shoulders  of  Private  Schultz,  or 
Kunz.  Who  thus  addressed  would  jerk  out: 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing,  Herr  Sergeant,  truly  nothing  at 
all ! "  and  receive  from  their  recently  despised  inferior  the 
rule  counsel  to  look  alive  and  keep  cheery : 

"For  this  will  be  a  war  worth  fighting  in,  mark  you! 
The  Man  on  the  Seine  has  played  the  part  of  the  Evil 


250  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Neighbor  too  long.  France  and  Prussia  have  got  to  come 
to  clapperclaws — there's  no  help  for  it!  The  soup  is 
cooked,  so  let  us  eat  it.  He  is  the  luckiest  who  gets  the 
spoon  in  first!" 

You  may  suppose  precisely  similar  scenes  and  dialogues 
occurring  in  the  experience  of  Kraus,  Klaus,  and  Klein, 
who,  having  served  their  time  with  the  active  Army  and 
passed  from  the  Reserve  into  the  Landwehr,  were  now 
fetched  out  with  the  First  Call,  not  only  to  replace  the 
garrisons  of  Saxony,  Prague,  Pardubitz,  and  all  the  other 
fortified  points  on  the  Unes  of  communication,  but  to 
guard  and  patrol  those  lines  of  road  and  railway  over  which 
the  three  marching  armies  were  to  receive  supplies  of  food, 
ammunition,  clothing,  stores,  and  medicine;  and  maintain 
telegraphic  communication  with  Berlin.  Meanwhile  Grein, 
Schwartz,  and  Braun,  men  of  riper  years,  stiffer  joints,  and 
older  experiences,  remained  at  home;  waiting  the  hour 
when,  Death  having  thinned  the  ranks  of  the  fighters  in 
the  forefront  of  the  battle,  the  Second  Call  should  sound. 
When  these  hardy  veteran  battalions,  formed  into  divisions 
of  the  same  numerical  strength  as  those  of  the  regular 
Army,  would  roll  over  the  frontiers,  to  fill  up  the  bloody 
gaps  left  by  the  scythe  of  the  Red  Mower,  and  play  their 
part  in  the  vast,  chaotic,  multi-tableauxed  drama  of  War. 

Prussia  contributed  some  652,294  actors  of  small  parts 
to  the  said  drama,  not  counting  the  leading  men,  stars  of 
the  war-theater,  who  supported  the  heavier  roles.  And 
Bavaria,  Wiirtemburg,  and  Baden  contributed  their  con- 
tingents, bringing  up  the  strength  of  the  cast  to  780,923 
performers.  The  equine  actors  numbered  213,159. 

.  The  vast  machine  worked  wonderfully.  It  is  interesting 
to  know  that  the  German  Staff  maps  of  France  showed 
recently  made  roads  which  in  July,  1870,  had  not  been 
marked  upon  any  map  issued  by  the  Imperial  War  Office 
at  Paris,  and  that  within  three  days  from  that  three- 
word  signal-wire  of  Moltke's,  military  trains  full  of  men, 
guns,  horses,  ammunition,  and  proviant,  began  to  run  at 
the  rate  of  forty  per  day,  from  north,  east,  and  south, 
toward  the  narrow  frontier  between  Strasbourg  and  Lux- 
embourg. 

"For  God  and  Fatherland!"  and  "Watch  well  the 
Rhine!"  said  the  miniature  banners  carried  by  thousands 


251 

of  people.  You  could  see  them  fluttering  from  crowded 
roofs  and  packed  windows,  and  variegating  the  sidewalks 
of  thoroughfares  below,  as  regiment  after  regiment 
marched  to  the  station,  in  shining  rivers  of  pickelliaubes 
and  bayonets,  or  Dragoon  helmets,  Hussar  busbies,  and 
Uhlan  schapkas,  flowing  between  upheaped  banks  of  wav- 
ing women  and  cheering  men. 

Speedily,  in  response  to  communications  addressed  by 
the  Crown  Prince  to  the  South  German  sovereigns,  notify- 
ing these  potentates  of  his  appointment  as  Commander-in- 
Chief  of  their  armies,  came  replies  expressing  satisfaction 
of  different  shades  and  qualities.  The  Grand  Duke  of 
Baden's  bubbled  with  joy,  and  expressed  the  determination 
of  his  troops  to  gain  their  Royal  Commander's  confidence 
by  fidelity  and  bravery.  The  King  of  Wiirtemburg  re- 
joiced likewise,  but  in  cooler  terms,  "in  our  German  af- 
fair ' '  being  brought  to  a  head  at  last ;  and  was  anxious  to 
have  the  opportunity  of  saluting  the  heir  of  Prussia.  The 
King  of  Bavaria  telegraphed  "Very  happy.  Many  thanks 
your  Royal  Highness' s  attention!"  A  message  which  con- 
veyed no  more  warmth  than  was  felt. 

His  telegram  of  martial  support,  addressed  at  the  outset 
of  affairs  to  Onkel  Wilhelm,  had  seemed  quite  genuine. 
Had  not  Count  Bismarck  quite  a  sheaf  of  documents,  more 
or  less  compelling,  signed  in  the  youthful  monarch's 
scrawling  hand?  King  Ludwig  had  ordered  immediate 
mobilization  of  the  dark  green  and  light  blue  uniforms — 
expended  millions  of  gulden  in  variegated  lamps,  public 
fountains  of  white  beer  and  red  wine,  bands,  Royal  Com- 
mand Opera  performances,  patriotic  set-pieces  in  fireworks 
(representing  the  tutelary  genii  of  Prussia  and  Bavaria, 
cuirassed  and  armed,  upholding  the  standards  of  black- 
and-white  and  blue-and- white),  joined  in  the  "Wacht  am 
Ehein"  as  though  he  liked  the  tune  (which  he  abhorred), 
and  certainly  enjoyed  the  tumultuous  plaudits  with  which 
his  subjects  greeted  their  monarch's  first  and  last  appear- 
ance in  the  character  of  a  man  of  action. 

But  instead  of  riding  away  at  the  head  of  the  South 
German  Army,  Nephew  Ludwig  sent  an  excuse  to  Onkel 
"Wilhelm — one  has  heard  a  gumboil  named  as  occasion  of 
the  disability — and  Cousin  Fritz  was  dispatched  to  take 
over  chief  command. 

Prince  Luitpold  of  Bavaria  accompanied  the  First  Army 


252  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

Headquarter  Staff.  Alas,  the  appointment  but  served  to 
inflame  the  gumboil  of  the  jealous  King, — the  accounts 
that  were  daily  to  reach  him  of  the  prowess  of  his  martial 
cousin  of  Prussia  worked  like  poison  in  his  blood.  He 
drew  the  hood  of  his  mantle  of  dreams  more  closely  over 
his  head  to  shut  out  those  fanfares  of  triumph,  those 
"Hochs!"  and  eheerings,  and  plunged  more  deeply  into 
the  solitudes  of  his  forests  and  mountain-caves.  Blood  and 
iron  were  his  bugbears,  and  yet  they  might  have  been  his 
tonics  too.  They  might  have  staved  off  the  black  hound  of 
Destiny,  already  baying  at  his  heels,  and  saved  him  from 
vicious  decadence,  ultimate  madness,  and  a  strange  and 
sordid  end. 

And  yet,  how  did  his  chivalrous  cousin  die,  at  the 
meridian  of  robust  manhood,  under  the  newly  imposed 
weight  of  an  Imperial  Crown?  Not  the  swift,  soldierly 
death  that  is  given  by  the  bullet  of  a  chassepot — the  pro- 
jectile from  a  mitrailleuse — the  flying  fragment  of  an 
exploding  shrapnel-shell — but  a  straw-death,  a  bed-death 
such  as  angry  seers  and  cursing  Valkyrs  of  Scandinavian 
legend  foretold  as  the  speedy  punishment  of  warriors  who 
had  broken  faith  and  tarnished  by  false  oaths  the  bright- 
ness of  their  honor. 

But  no  shadow  of  the  grim  fate  that  was  to  befall  him 
darkened  those  brave  blue  eyes  at  this  period.  Laboring 
night  and  day  at  the  mobilization  of  his  Third  Army,  in 
concert  with  his  Chief  of  Staff,  Von  Blumenthal,  he  was 
buoyantly  happy,  despite  his  hatred  of  the  shedding  of 
blood  and  his  undisguised  compassion  for  the  conjectured 
plight  of  the  Man  on  the  Seine. 

With  whom  Britannia  at  first  expressed  a  sympathy  not 
at  all  restrained  or  guarded,  and  for  the  success  of  whose 
arms  she  was  openly  eager,  until,  toward  the  close  of  this 
momentous  month  of  July,  1870,  the  text  of  a  brief  but 
pithy  diplomatic  document,  penned  in  precise  and  elegant 
French,  and  dated  a  few  years  previously — made  its  ap- 
pearance in  the  columns  of  the  Times. 

The  movements  of  the  opposing  forces  camped  on  the 
banks  of  the  Meuse  and  the  Saar  lost  interest  for  the  public 
eye  in  perusal  of  this  rough  memorandum  of  a  proposed 
treaty  between  the  Third  Napoleon  and  the  King  of  Prus- 
sia, scrawled  in  Count  Benedetti's  flowing  Italian  hand. 

Since  the  spring  of  '67  it  had  been  hidden  away  in  a 


;THE   MAN  OE  IRON  253 

snug  corner  of  Bismarck's  dispatch-box,  waiting  to  jump 
out.  You  recall  the  terms  of  the  thing — one  of  many  overt 
attempts  to  seize  a  coveted  prize.  The  Empire  of  France 
was  to  recognize  the  acquisitions  made  by  Prussia  in  the 
war  of  1866  with  Austria.  Prussia  was  to  aid  Napoleon  III. 
to  buy  from  Holland  the  debatable  Duchy  of  Luxem- 
bourg. The  Emperor  was  to  shed  the  luster  of  his  smile 
and  the  aegis  of  his  approval  upon  Federal  Union  between 
the  North  German  Parliament  and  the  South  German 
States — the  separate  sovereignty  of  each  State  remaining. 
In  return,  Prussia  was  to  abet  the  Bonaparte  in  the  mili- 
tary occupation  and  subsequent  absorption  of  the  King- 
dom of  Belgium.  And  in  furtherance  of  these  laudable 
ends,  an  alliance,  offensive  and  defensive,  against  any 
Power,  insular  or  otherwise,  was  to  be  compact  between  the 
great  gilt  eagle  of  the  Third  Empire  and  the  black-plu- 
maged  bird  across  the  frontier. 

Britons,  with  inconveniently  good  memories,  perusing 
this  draft,  recalled  the  existence  of  a  treaty  existing  be- 
tween France,  England,  and  Prussia,  mutually  binding 
these  Powers  to  protect  the  neutrality  of  Belgium,  and 
drew  reflections  damaging  to  the  betrayer  and  the  betrayed. 
French  diplomatists  asserted  that  the  project  had  been 
drawn  up  by  Benedetti  at  Bismarck's  dictation.  Why 
preserve  so  explosive  a  document,  they  argued,  if  it  was 
never  to  be  drawn  out  and  supplied  with  detonators  in  the 
shape  of  signatures  ?  Later  on  M.  Rouher  's  boxes  of  official 
papers,  found  at  his  chateau  of  Cercay,  gave  up  the  origi- 
nal draft-treaty  annotated  in  the  Emperor's  handwriting. 

For  it  was  his  nature,  may  God  pardon  him !  to  be  false 
and  specious,  ungrateful  and  an  oath-breaker.  He  must 
always  repay  great  services  with  great  wrongs.  Thus  in 
the  red  year  1870,  England,  who  in  '54  had  poured  out 
blood  and  treasure  lavishly  to  aid  him,  receiving  this  plain 
proof  of  treachery,  stood  sorrowfully  back  and  saw  him 
rush  upon  his  fate.  Sick  and  desperate,  madly  hurling 
his  magnificent  Army  hither  and  thither  upon  the  arena, 
a  Generalissimo  out-generaled  before  the  War  was  a  week 
old. 

He  had  made  France  his  mistress  and  his  slave,  and  now 
her  fetters  were  to  be  hacked  apart  by  the  merciless  sword 
of  the  invader.  Through  losses,  privations,  and  humilia- 
tions; through  an  ordeal  of  suffering  unparalleled  in  the 


254  THE    MAN   OE   IRON 

world 's  history ;  through  an  orgy  of  vice  and  an  era  of  infi- 
delity ;  through  fresh  oceans  of  blood  shed  from  the  veins  of 
her  bravest;  she  was  to  pass  before  she  found  herself  and 
GOD  again. 

Meanwhile,  North,  East,  South  and  West,  prevailed  a 
great  swarming  scurry  of  military  preparation,  the  tunes 
of  the  "Wacht  am  Rhein"  and  "Heil  dir  im  Sieges- 
kranz"  clashing  with  "Partant  pour  la  Syrie"  and  the 
"Marseillaise";  and  the  solemn  strains  of  masses  rising  up 
together  with  Lutheran  litanies,  as  two  great  nations  strove 
to  convince  Divine  Omnipotence  that  Codlin  deserved  to 
whip,  and  not  Short. 

Strange !  that  Christian  men,  who  frankly  confess  them- 
selves to  be  sinners,  worms,  and  dust-grains  before  the 
supreme  Majesty  of  the  Creator,  should  be  so  prone  to  offer 
Him  advice. 


XXX 

THE  LOVELY  LADY  whose  lace  parasol  P.  C.  Breagh  had 
picked  up  at  the  bottom  of  the  Prussian  Chancellor 's  stair- 
case was  driven,  by  the  tipsy-faced  Jehu  of  a  debilitated 
hack-cab,  to  a  semi-fashionable  hotel  situated  in  a  graveled 
courtyard  facing  toward  the  Linden.  The  bureau-manager 
looked  out  of  his  glass-case  as  she  swept  her  rustling 
draperies  over  the  dusty  Brussels  carpets  of  the  vestibule, 
and  muttered  to  the  pale-faced  ledger-clerk  at  his  side : 

"A  representative  from  the  firm  of  Miiller  and  Stettig, 
Charlotten-Strasse,  has  called  three  times  to  see  the  lady  in 
Suite  35.  With  a  jewelry  account  for  payment,  promised 
and  deferred." 

The  clerk  assented  with  a  nod  of  the  double-barreled 
order,  and  reaching  an  envelope  from  a  numbered  pigeon- 
hole offered  it  for  the  inspection  of  his  superior. 

"  Baroness  VOD  Valverden,"  sniffed  the  bureau-manager, 
and  in  his  turn  reached  a  squat  red  Almanach  de  Gotha 
from  the  top  of  a  pile  of  ledgers,  and  ruffled  the  leaves 
with  an  industrious  thumb. 

"  It  is  as  I  thought — there  is  no  Baroness  von  Valverden. 
Baron  Ernst  von  Schon-Valverden  is  a  minor  and  a  bach- 
elor, private  in  the  — th  Regiment  of  Potsdam  Infantry 


THE  MAN;  or  IRON         255 

of  the  Guard.  This  must  be  the  Frenchwoman  I  have 
heard  of  as  mixed  up  in  the  scandal  connected  with  the 
death  of  Baron  Maximilian  at  Schonfeld  in  the  Altenwald 
some  years  ago.  He  left  Madame  a  lapful  of  thalers — I 
suppose  she  has  played  skat  with  the  money.  Not  that  that 
matters  if  the  hook-nosed,  long-haired  Slav  she  has  got 
with  her  upstairs  has  the  cash  to  settle  with  us!  But  if 
not " 

The  manager's  tone  was  ominous.  The  clerk  scratched 
his  nose  with  the  feather-end  of  his  pen,  and  said  ad- 
miringly : 

"If  not,  the  Herr  Bureau-Director  will  give  orders  to 
detain  their  valises  and  trunks  ? ' ' 

The  bureau-manager  smiled,  and  said,  jerking  his  chin 
at  another  envelope  reposing  in  the  numbered  pigeon-hole : 

' '  Send  that  up  at  once  and  let  them  know  we  will  stand 
no  nonsense.  Keep  Miiller  and  Stettig's  back  for  the 
present.  Understand  ? ' ' 

And  the  clerk  nodded  again,  and  whistled  down  a  tube, 
and  evoked  from  regions  below  a  brass-buttoned,  gilt- 
braided  functionary,  to  whom  he  entrusted  the  missive 
indicated,  which  bore  the  monogram  of  the  hotel-company, 
and  indeed  contained  their  bill. 

It  was  handed  to  Madame  by  the  brass-buttoned  func- 
tionary just  as  she  reached  the  ante-room  of  her  second- 
floor  suite  of  apartments.  She  took  it  from  the  salver,  and 
said  without  looking  at  it: 

"Presently!" 

The  functionary  gave  a  peremptory  verbal  message.  She 
repeated : 

"Presently,  sir,  presently.  ...  At  this  moment  I  am 
exceedingly  fatigued!" 

The  brass-buttoned  functionary  begged  to  remind  the 
gracious  lady  of  similar  excuses  previously  received  by  the 
management.  At  this  she  turned  upon  him  the  battery  of 
her  magnificent  eyes.  Always  economical  of  her  forces,  she 
had  removed  her  torn  tulle  veil  during  the  cab-drive,  and 
with  a  delicate  powder-puff  drawn  from  a  jeweled  case 
dependant  from  her  golden  chatelaine,  removed  from  her 
lovely  face  all  traces  of  emotion.  Only  a  spiteful  woman 
would  have  called  her  thirty-five.  .  .  .  And  the  functionary 
was  a  man,  despite  his  brass  buttons  and  gilt  braiding. 


256  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

When  she  smiled,  he  caved  in,  bowed,  and  left  her.  But 
he  did  not  forget  to  leave  the  bill. 

She  had  it  in  her  hand  as  she  entered  the  drawing-room 
of  the  suite  of  apartments,  one  of  those  impossibly  shaped, 
fantastically-uncomfortable  salons,  possessing  a  multi- 
plicity of  doors  and  windows,  upholstered  with  rose-satin 
and  crusted  with  ormolu,  such  as  are  only  seen  in  foreign 
hotels  and  upon  the  stage.  Despite  the  sultry  heat  of  the 
July  weather  the  windows  were  shut,  their  Venetian  blinds 
lowered,  and  their  thick  lace  curtains  drawn  over  these. 
And  in  a  rose-colored  arm-chair  with  twisted  golden  legs 
and  arms  and  an  absurd  back-ornament  like  an  Apollonian 
lyre,  huddled  a  dark,  hawk-featured,  powerfully  built  man 
of  something  less  than  forty,  wrapped  in  a  short,  wide  coat 
lined,  cuffed,  and  collared  with  black  Astrakhan ;  wearing  a 
traveling-cap  similarly  lined,  and  presenting  the  appear- 
ance of  one  who  suffers  from  a  cold  of  the  snuffly,  catarrhal 
kind. 

He  sneezed  as  Madame  surged  across  the  threshold,  and 
would  have  told  her  to  shut  the  door,  only  that  she  divined 
his  intention  and  forestalled  him,  throwing  her  parasol 
upon  a  sofa  and  sinking  into  a  chair  as  ridiculous  as  his 
own.  Yet  when  her  wealth  of  pale-hued  draperies  poured 
over  it,  and  the  ripe  outlines  of  her  voluptuous  form  con- 
cealed its  crudities  of  design  and  coloring,  it  could  be  for- 
given for  being  in  bad  taste. 

She  looked  in  silence  at  the  traveling-cap,  not  at  its 
sulky  wearer,  until,  conscious  of  her  sustained  regard,  he 
raised  his  hand  to  his  head.  In  haste  then,  as  though  she 
dreaded  the  shock  of  his  purposeful  abstention  from  the 
customary  courtesy,  she  said: 

' '  Do  not  take  it  off !    Pray  keep  it  on ! " 

"Thanks!"  He  uttered  the  word  laconically,  drooping 
his  immense,  black-lashed  eyelids  over  his  fierce  and 
staring  eyes.  They,  too,  were  black,  with  the  white,  hard 
glitter  of  polished  jet;  black  also  were  the  great  curved 
eyebrows,  the  coarse  and  shining  hair  that  fell  to  his 
shoulders,  the  parted  mustache,  and  the  wedge-shaped 
beard  that  depended  from  his  boldly  curved  chin.  Rip- 
pling in  small,  regular  waves,  suggestive  of  the  labor  of  a 
primitive  sculptor's  chisel,  the  inky  chevelure  of  this  man 
with  the  cold, — taken  in  conjunction  with  his  large,  aqui- 


THE   MAIS'   OF   IRON  257 

line  nose,  deep  chest,  fleshy  torso,  and  thick  muscular 
limbs,  reproduced  the  type  of  an  ancient  Assyrian  warrior, 
as  represented  in  some  carved  and  painted  wall-frieze  of 
Nineveh  or  Babylon,  marching  in  a  triumphant  proces- 
sion of  Shalmaneser  or  Sennacherib.  Even  the  conical 
head-dress  was  reproduced  by  the  modern  cap  with  ear- 
pieces, and  turned-up  border ;  and  the  deep  yellowish- white 
of  the  alabaster  in  which  the  ancient  sculptor  wrought  his 
bas-relief  was  reproduced  in  thick,  smooth,  unblemished 
skin. 

Handsome  as  he  undoubtedly  was  in  his  exotic,  Oriental 
style,  even  in  spite  of  influenza,  Madame  contemplated  him 
with  ill-concealed  distaste.  To  a  woman  who  loves,  what 
matters  the  temporary  thickening  of  the  beloved  object's 
profile,  even  when  accompanied  by  attacks  of  sneezing  and 
a  running  at  the  nose  and  eyes?  She  can  wait  the  day 
when  his  voice  will  clear,  and  his  leading  feature  will  regain 
its  former  beauty.  That  is,  as  long  as  she  continues  to 
love. 

The  passion  of  this  man  and  this  woman  had  in  its  brief 
time  burned  high  and  fiercely.  So  does  a  fire  of  paper  or 
straw.  Now  Passion  lay  dying,  and  Satiety  and  Weariness 
were  the  only  watchers  by  the  death-bed.  Every  twenty- 
four  hours  that  passed  over  the  heads  of  the  couple  brought 
nearer  the  hour  when  these  would  give  place  to  Hatred  and 
Dislike.  And  meanwhile  both  were  infinitely  hipped. 

"Every  window.  .  .  .  Every  curtain.  .  .  .  Must  we, 
then,  asphyxiate?  ..."  At  the  end  of  her  patience,  she 
made  an  angry  gesture  as  though  to  loosen  the  ribbon  of 
mauve  velvet  that  held  a  diamond  locket  at  the  base  of  her 
round  white  throat,  bit  her  full  lip — and  let  her  hand  drop 
idly  into  her  silken  lap  again. 

Her  companion  stretched  out  a  pair  of  muscular,  but 
shortish  legs,  encased  in  dark  green  trousers  with  braided 
side-stripes,  and  looked  with  interest  at  his  patent  boots. 
Then  he  answered,  speaking  with  a  drawling,  nasal  accent : 

"Unless  M.  de  Bismarck  has  supplied  you  with  the 
means  of  averting  a  singularly-unpleasant  catastrophe,  it 
may  be  that  the  answer  to  your  question  should  be  'Yes'!" 

She  understood  that  he  questioned,  and  said,  drooping 
her  proud,  languorous  eyes  under  the  hard  black  stare  of 
his: 


258  THE   MAN  OE   IRON 

"You  would  be  wiser  to  speak  in  a  lowered  tone,  when 
you  refer  to — that  personage.  One  does  not  trifle  with 
him — here  or  elsewhere!" 

"The  Pomeranian  bear,"  said  her  companion,  pouting 
a  slightly  swollen  lip,  and  dabbing  gingerly  at  his  reddened 
nostrils  with  a  voluminous  cambric  handkerchief  exhaling 
the  heavy  perfume  of  opoponax,  "has  claws  and  fangs. 
Also  a  hug,  in  which  friends  of  mine  have  stifled.  But  they 
were  men  and  you  are  an  enchanting  woman!"  He  re- 
moved his  cap  and  bowed ;  resuming :  ' '  Besides  you  went 
to  M.  le  Ministre  with  a  trump  in  your  hand — a  little 
Queen  of  Diamonds,  fresh  as  a  rosebud.  Have  you  played 
her,  may  I  ask?" 

He  got  up,  pocketing  his  handkerchief,  came  over  to  her 
and  stood  beside  her,  in  the  upright  attitude  which  called 
attention  to  the  disproportion  between  his  huge  torso  and 
his  too-short  legs.  He  held  his  furred  cap  upon  his  hip  with 
one  hand,  and  with  the  other  stroked  his  waved  wedge- 
beard.  The  rasping  sound  made  by  his  heavily-ringed 
fingers  as  they  passed  through  the  thick,  crisp  hairs  irri- 
tated her  to  anguish.  Yet  not  so  long  ago  it  had  thrilled 
her  to  sensuous  ecstasy. 

"I  played  the  girl — and  I  have  lost!"  Almost  against 
her  will  a  cry  broke  from  her.  ' '  My  God !  what  things  he 
said  to  me !  My  God !  what  humiliations  we  women  endure 
for  men!" 

"I  had  imagined,  my  Adelaide,"  said  he  of  the  Assyrian 
hair  and  profile,  showing  in  a  smile  a  double  row  of  teeth 
so  perfect  that  they  struck  the  imagination  as  being  carved 
out  of  two  solid  curves  of  ivory — "that  you  were  playing 
for  your  own  advantage — even  when  you  played  my  game. 
Did  M.  le  Comte  mention  me  at  any  point  of  the  inter- 
view?" 

She  started  at  the  unexpected  question.  Her  voice  shook 
a  little  in  the  reply. 

' '  He  said  that  he  had  heard — that  M.  de  Straz  had  lately 
visited  Berlin.  That  his  agents  would  tell  him.  Of 
course ! ' ' 

"He  said  nothing  of — a  flying  visit  of  mine  to  Sig- 
maringen?" 

She  answered  hastily : 

"I  think  not.    No!    I  am  quite  certain  he  did  not." 

"No?" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  259 

Straz  sniffed  and  whipped  out  his  handkerchief,  grum- 
bling : 

''Yet  the  purport  of  my  mission  to  that  South  German 
crow  Vnest  was  known  to  him — here  in  Berlin — I  can  prove 
it! — by  nightfall  of  the  day  I  interviewed  the  Prince." 
He  added,  trumpeting  in  his  handkerchief,  "Of  course, 
M.  Bismarck  has  spies  everywhere.  But  all  the  same  it 
was  quick  work!" 

Her  face  was  immovable.  No  guilty  flush  stained  its 
smooth  ivory  surface.  Only  the  lines  about  her  scarlet 
mouth  sharpened,  that  was  all. 

Straz  went  on,  peevishly,  strolling  to  the  fireplace,  and 
leaning  an  elbow  on  the  corner  of  the  mantelshelf. 

"I  suppose  they  call  that  princely  hospitality — to  send 
a  man  who  has  traveled  night  and  day,  and  is  decanted 
out  of  a  crazy  railway-station  droschke  at  the  door  of  their 
confounded  Stammschloss  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning — 
to  an  inn ! ' ' 

She  said  in  a  velvet  tone  of  amorous  insinuation,  and 
with  a  glance  of  sleepy  fire : 

"To  an  inn  where  Love  lay  waiting !  .  .  . " 

"Truly,"  he  admitted,  "but  how  were  they  to  know 
that  you  were  there?  What  possible  connection  could 
have  been  imagined  between  two  chance  travelers — I — 
arriving  from  Paris — you  coming  from  Berlin  ?  Besides — 
to  send  me  to  a  summer  tavern  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube ! 
— when  they  have  two  hundred  bedrooms  at  the  Schloss! 
If  that  is  princely  hospitality,  I  tell  you  that  I  spit  upon  it ! 
I  grind  it  under  the  heel  of  my  boot ! " 

Her  nostrils  dilated  with  disgust  as  he  demonstrated  by 
spitting  on  the  hearthrug.  She  said,  meeting  his  angry 
black  stare  with  eyes  that  were  of  the  color  of  tawny 
wine: 

"The  Prince  cannot  have  regretted  his  omission  to  ac- 
commodate you  with  an  apartment,  when  the  Emperor's 
message  was  made  known  to  him!" 

He  demanded: 

"Am  I  a  hired  bravo?  Pardieu!  your  words  suggest  it. 
"Were  either  of  the  old  man's  sons  in  danger  personally, 
from  me?  Not  at  all!  I  but  repeated  a  lesson — gave  a 
warning  as  it  had  been  given.  .  .  .  But  I  understand — you 
have  been  chagrined  by  the  nature  of  your  reception  from 
the  Federal  Chancellor ! ' ' 


260  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

She  returned,  now  flushed  and  breathing  deeply : 

"It  is  true.  I  suffocate  at  the  recollection.  Give  me 
time  to  breathe!" 

She  rose.  Straz  said,  going  over  to  her,  taking  both  her 
hands,  kissing  them  and  replacing  her  in  her  chair : 

"Compose  yourself.  Let  me  understand  the  attitude 
M.  le  Ministre  is  taking.  I  need  not  remind  you  that  not 
until  I  had  learned  from  you  that,  through  the  lamented 
Count  Valverden,  you  were  sufficiently  acquainted  with 
M.  de  Bismarck  to  obtain  an  interview,  did  I  suggest  that 
you  should  seek  one.  Well,  you  did,  and  it  has  taken 
place.  You  told  him  of  the  little  episode  I  witnessed 
in  January — on  the  day  of  the  funeral  of  Victor  Noir  at 
Neuilly.  Monseigneur  the  Prince  Imperial  was  riding 
with  his  governor  and  escort — the  Avenue  of  the  Champs 
Elysees  was  blocked  by  troops.  A  charming  girl  threw 
M.  Lulu  a  bunch  of  violets — made  a  little  scene  of  loyalty 
and  enthusiasm  in  contrast  with  the  unamiable  attitude 
of  the  crowd  assembled.  An  equerry  dismounted  and  gave 
the  flowers  to  Monseigneur.  He  carried  them  with  him  as 
he  galloped  toward  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  Nothing  of  im- 
portance in  that,  perhaps,  had  he  not  afterward  sent  for 
the  equerry  who  had  picked  up  the  flowers,  and  said  to 
him,  blushing,  'Pray  tell  me  who  was  she?'  So  skilled  a 
master  of  phrases  as  M.  de  Bismarck  could  hardly  have 
undervalued  the  question  from  the  heir  to  an  Empire, 
taken  in  combination  with  the  blush.  Or  discounted  the 
importance  of  the  fact  that,  later,  when  the  equerry 
brought  him  the  information  that  the  charming  unknown 
was  the  daughter  and  only  child  of  a  certain  gallant 
Colonel  commanding  the  777th  Regiment  of  Mounted 
Chasseurs  of  the  Imperial  Guard — at  that  moment  quar- 
tered at  Versailles, — Monseigneur  said,  with  another  blush 
as  ingenuous  as  the  first,  '  I  am  glad  she  is  the  daughter  of 
so  brave  a  soldier!  Possibly  I  may  meet  her  one  of  these 
days.'  Being  told  that  her  baptismal  name  was  'Juliette' 
he  blushed  once  more,  and  wrote  it  down, — together  with 
Mademoiselle's  surname  and  address, — in  a  little  memoran- 
dum-book he  habitually  carries.  .  .  .  And  there,  my  ex- 
quisite Adelaide — if  your  narrative  style  did  credit  to  my 
teaching,  the  interest  of  M.  de  Bismarck  should  have  been 
engaged." 


THE   MAN   OF   IRON  261 

She  lowered  her  chin  and  drooped  her  somber  eyelids, 
and  said  with  curling  lips : 

"It  was.  He  took  out  his  watch,  and  told  me:  'I  can 
hear  you  for  three  minutes  longer!  Has  the  Prince  Im- 
perial— with  the  disinterested  assistance  of  those  about  him, 
altered  that  possibility  into  a  certainty?'  I  explained  to 
him  then  that  nothing  further  had  come  of  the  rencontre, 
— though  measures  had  been  taken  to  preserve  Monseig- 
neur's  interest  from  dying  for  lack  of  excitement,  bouquets 
of  violets  being  sent  to  him  at  regular  intervals,  with  a  slip 
of  paper  attached  to  the  stems,  upon  which  had  been 
written  in  an  unformed,  girlish  hand — 'From  one  who 
prays  for  the  H ope  of  France!' ' 

"And  then?  ..." 

"Then  M.  de  Bismarck  spoke,  keeping  his  thumb  all  the 
time  on  the  watch-dial:  'So!  The  girl  plays  the  part  of 
an  ingenue  for  the  present !  Will  she  keep  these  airs  of 
candor  and  innocence  when  she  has  got  her  claws  on  that 
poor  stripling?  And  do  you  suggest  that  the  Prussian 
Secret  Service  should  supply  her  with  funds  for  the  carry- 
ing out  of  her  design,  whatever  it  may  be  ?  Are  we  to  lay 
our  heads  together,  like  the  Brethren  in  the  libretto  of 
Mehul's  opera  "Joseph,"  and  sing  in  chorus:  This  is  the 
heir.  Come,  let  us  kill  him!' ' 

"Even  Beelzebub,"  said  Straz,  "can  quote  from  Scrip- 
ture when  it  suits  him.  I  suppose  you  were  annoyed,  and 
showed  it — which  was  an  error  of  judgment  on  your  part ! ' ' 

' '  I  rose  up, ' '  said  she,  and  suited  the  action  to  the  word, 
"with  indignation,  assuring  M.  de  Bismarck  that  his  sus~ 
picions  were  unjust.  That  the  young  girl  mentioned  was 
of  ancient  family  and  irreproachable  morals,  convent-bred 
and  highly  educated.  And  that  I,  myself,  being  her  near- 
est living  relative  of  her  own  sex,  was  able  to  vouch  for 
the  fact.  I  added  that  the  interest  displayed  in  her  by 
Monseigneur  the  Prince — who  until  that  moment  had 
never  been  known  to  look  at  a  woman — led  me  to  con- 
ceive that  by  aid  of  a  few  deft  hints,  a  little  discreet 
encouragement — another  distant  glimpse — a  meeting  acci- 
dentally brought  about  in  some  retired  spot  favorable  to 
the  revival  of  first  impressions,  an  influence  might  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  Imperial  boy  which  might  develop 
his  mind  and  mold  his  character.  Somehow  in  my  agita- 


262  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

tion  the  name  of  Juliette  de  Bayard  escaped  me  'De 
Bayard,'  exclaimed  M.  de  Bismarck.  'So!  You  are  her 
mother!'  Great  Heaven! — the  intolerable  tone  in  which 
he  uttered  the  words!  Only  the  most  abandoned  of  her 
sex  could  have  supported  the  insulting  irony  of  the  look 
accompanying  them.  Choking,  I  took  my  leave.  .  .  .  He 
accompanied  me  to  the  staircase,  with  a  false  appearance 
of  courtesy.  As  I  turned  to  descend,  he  hurled  the  last 
insult  of  all!  Nicolas,  do  not  ask  me  to  repeat  the  sen- 
tences!— and  yet,  I  must  have  them  written  in  another 
memory.  .  .  .  He  twitted  me  with  my  nationality  before 
his  secretary  and  servants.  He  likened  me  to  a  mytho- 
logical character  with  an  unpronounceable  name.  .  .  .  He 
said  only  a  modern  mother  would  be  infamous  enough  to 
devote  her  only  daughter  to  Venus  Something-Or-Other. 
.  .  .  Next  to  my  husband,  I  detest  that  man ! ' ' 

Straz  had  been  pulling  at  his  moist  red  underlip  as  she 
raved  out  her  story  in  a  frenzy  of  rage  and  resentment, 
intensified  by  the  necessity  of  speaking  in  a  lowered  tone. 
Now  he  dragged  the  feature  out  as  though  it  had  been  made 
of  india-rubber,  let  it  snap  back,  and  said,  shrugging  his 
bull 's  shoulders  and  getting  up : 

"You  are  a  woman  and  he  is — Bismarck!  He  does  not 
for  the  moment  want  the  wares  you  desire  to  sell  him.  It 
is  unlike  him — the  diplomat  who  could  encourage  M.  Bene- 
detti  to  lay  before  him  the  Emperor's  pro  jet  de  traite 
in  writing — and  lock  it  away  for  use  at  a  future  oppor- 
tunity— not  to  be  willing  to  secure  an  advantage — placed 
before  him  with  clearness  and  skill — in  the  newly  awakened 
fancy  of  a  schoolboy  who,  if  he  lives,  will  be  an  Emperor — 
for  a  charming  and  innocent  young  girl ! ' '  He  pronounced 
these  words  as  though  they  were  smeared  with  something 
sweet  and  luscious,  licking  his  lips  gently,  and  rolling  his 
dead  black  eyes  in  sensual  enjoyment.  "As  regards  your 
husband,  he  has  certainly  not  replied  to  the  letter  of  your 
solicitors,  but  why  do  you  hate  the  unlucky  man?" 

"Do  you  ask?"  Adelaide  demanded,  with  glittering 
eyes  and  heaving  bosom.  "Did  he  not  refuse  to  divorce 
me?  Should  I  not  have  legally  borne  the  title  of  Baroness 
von  Valverden  if  his  sentimental  prejudices  had  not 
blocked  the  way  ? ' ' 

Straz  pulled  his  waved  beard,  and  said,  delicately  sepa- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  263 

rating  a  strand  of  it  from  the  rest,  and  keeping  it  between 
his  thick  white  fingers: 

"Sentimental,  why  sentimental?  Do  you  not  even  give 
him  credit  for  sufficient  spirit  to  resent  being  made  ridicu- 
lous ?  The  desire  to  be  revenged — you  will  not  even  allow 
him  that?" 

She  bit  her  scarlet  underlip  and  answered,  breathing 
quickly : 

"He  was  too  good,  too  high-minded — too  chivalrous — 
oh!  'tis  ridiculous,  I  admit!"  for  Straz  commenced  to 
titter  silently,  screwing  up  the  corners  of  his  eyes  and  shak- 
ing his  shoulders,  as  he  sat  with  his  thick,  short  arms  folded 
on  his  chest.  "An  idea  to  make  you  hug  yourself  as  you 
are  doing.  But  true,  nevertheless !  He  would  have  said — 
at  this  distance  of  time  I  can  still  hear  him  preaching:  'I 
will  avenge  the  injury  to  my  honor  when  I  am  confronted 
with  my  enemy.  I  will  not  revenge  myself  upon  the 
woman  who  deserted  me  for  him!'  ' 

The  words  came,  not  in  her  own  voice.  Straz  left  off 
sniggering.  He  said  to  himself,  considering  her  through 
narrowed  lids: 

' '  Those  were  De  Bayard 's  actual  words.  I  wonder,  since 
she  has  neither  seen  nor  heard  from  him  since  she  left  him, 
how  it  is  she  knew  that  they  were  spoken  ?  Some  obliging 
mutual  friend  may  have  repeated  them.  Or  she  read  them 
in  some  letter  of  his,  written  to  Count  Valverden.  That 
is  quite  possible.  But  the  question  is,  whether  she  would 
detest  him  so  bitterly  if  her  passion  for  him  were  absolutely 
extinguished.  She  is  even  jealous  when  one  speaks  of 
their  daughter,  whom  he  worships.  ...  I  will  play  her  on 
this  string — it  may  be  useful,  who  knows?" 

Aloud  he  said: 

"Detest  your  husband,  dear  friend,  if  it  affords  you 
entertainment.  Probably  he  deserves  it,  though  women  I 
have  met  who  knew  him  vowed  him  un  creme  d'homme, 
worthy  of  the  name  he  bears."  He  smiled  in  his  beard, 
hearing  her  foot  tap  upon  the  shining  parquet,  and  went 
on.  ' '  Men  have  praised  his  gallantry  and  his  disinterested- 
ness  " 

;<  'Disinterestedness!'  "  she  mocked.  "Truly — to  the 
point  of  fanaticism  he  is  disinterested.  Have  we  not  to 
thank  that  characteristic  for  the  ruin  of  our  plans?" 


264  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

Said  Straz: 

"A  little  more  subtlety  upon  the  part  of  your  solicitors, 
and  you  might  have  found  M.  le  Colonel  less  obstinately 
inclined  to  discourage  the  idea  of  a  reconciliation.  To  have 
entrusted  a  portrait  to  the  hands  of  the  lawyers  would  have 
been  an  excellent  move.  Once  convinced  that  the  thirteen 
or  fourteen  years  that  have  elapsed  since  you — parted — 
have  increased  rather  than  diminished  the  beauty  that 
once  he  worshiped — and  I  fancy  De  Bayard  would  have 
accepted  your  terms ! ' ' 

He  sniggered,  and  waited  as  the  violet  shadows  about  her 
brilliant  eyes  deepened,  and  she  breathed  more  quickly. 
Then  he  went  on : 

"They  were  generous — I  allude  to  the  conditions. 
Ninety  men  out  of  a  hundred  would  have  accepted  them. 
For  what  has  De  Bayard  to  condone  that  others  have  not 
winked  at?  You  were  a  mere  girl,  weary  of  separation 
from  a  husband  who  doubtless  consoled  himself  after  his 
own  fashion,  for  his  detention  in  the  Crimea.  Bored  to 
desperation — condemned  to  spend  your  days  in  the  care  of 
a  child,  and  in  listening  to  the  imbecile  grumblings  of  a 
sick  old  devotee, — point  out  to  me  the  woman,  young, 
beautiful,  brilliant,  and  ambitious — who  would  not — in 
your  place — have  done  precisely  as  you  did  ? ' ' 

She  threw  her  head  a  little  backward,  bringing  into 
prominence  the  superb  modeling  of  her  columnar  throat 
and  the  heavy  lines  of  the  lower  jaw.  Her  wine-colored 
eyes  considered  him  between  their  narrowed  lids.  She 
savored  his  words,  silently,  with  palpitating  nostrils,  and 
rippling  movements  of  the  muscles  of  her  tightly  closed 
lips.  And  the  qualities  of  treachery  and  cruelty,  mingling 
in  her  strange  character  with  sensuality,  and  pride,  and 
recklessness,  were  written  upon  her  beauty  as  plainly  as 
they  are  stamped  upon  the  individuality  of  a  tigress,  or  a 
poisonous  snake. 

"You  speak  of  weariness  ...  of  boredom  ..."  She 
spoke  between  her  teeth,  accentuating  the  vowels  and  pro- 
longing the  sibilants :  ' '  Nicolas,  it  was  hellish — that  menage 
at  Auteuil!  ..."  She  clenched  the  white  hand  that 
rested  on  the  chair-arm  and  continued,  looking  with  burn- 
ing eyes  through  Straz  into  the  past. 

"That  woman — my  husband's  mother,  with  her  parade 
of  devotion  for  the  absent.  With  her  ceaseless  repetition 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  265 

of  'my  son,'  'my  son's  child,'  and  'my  son's  wife!'  .  .  . 
Grand  Dieu! — how  she  enraged  me!  How  she  made  me 
hate — hate — hate  them! — yes!  all  three.  .  .  .  Perhaps  my- 
self also,  most  bitterly  of  all ! " 

"We  have  a  curious  proverb  in  my  country,"  com- 
mented Straz,  with  his  snigger:  "  '1  draw  water  from  a 
well  that  has  no  bottom  when  I  tell  my  gossip  of  the  faults 
of  my  mother-in-law!'  ' 

She  said,  with  undisguised  scorn : 

"I  am  not  a  collector  of  curios  from  your  country!" 

"Ah,  but  wait!  Hear  the  rest  of  it!"  said  Straz,  dex- 
terously embroidering  on  the  original:  "'But  when  my 
mother-in-laiv  wishes  to  acquaint  my  husband  with  my  good 
qualities,  she  will  write  them  with  the  plume  from  a  gnat's 
head,  on  the  paper  that  wrapped  a  butterfly's  egg,  when 
she  has  bought  her  ink  at  the  shop  where  they  sell  none!'  ' 

Adelaide  continued,  ignoring  the  labored  witticism : 

"In  the  letter  of  farewell  that  I  wrote  to  De  Bayard  I 
said  'Tour  mother  will  console  you,  I  have  no  doubt!'  .  .  . 
How  often  I  have  imagined  I  could  hear  her  talking  to 
him.  .  .  .  He  would  weep  on  her  knees,  like  a  schoolboy. 
She  would  lead  him  to  look  at  the  child,  asleep  in  its  cot  by 
the  side  of  her  bed,  and  tell  him,  'Do  not  fear!  She  will 
not  be  like  her  mother!  She  will  grow  up  candid  and  dis- 
creet and  virtuous!'  Everything  that  Adelaide  was  not, 
you  understand.  .  .  .  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Absurd  old  creature! 
Were  she  not  dead,  I  should  detest  her  still ! ' ' 

Straz  mentally  commented :  ' '  The  daughter  has  inherited 
the  hatred,  unless  I  am  mistaken."  Aloud  he  said : 

"The  prophecy,  if  made,  has  not  been  fulfilled,  my 
Adelaide.  .  .  .  Mademoiselle,  if  inferior  to  her  mother  in 
splendor  and  beauty,  certainly  has  been  dowered  with  her 
elegance  and  charm. ' '  He  bunched  the  fingers  of  his  right 
hand,  kissed  them,  and  launched  the  kiss,  conjecturally,  in 
the  direction  of  Paris.  ' '  A  pocket  edition  of  Psyche  before 
that  little  affair  with  Cupid!  A  rare  jewel!  A  chic  type, 
give  you  my  word ! ' ' 

The  daintily  shod  foot  had  beaten  time,  as  Straz  en- 
larged upon  the  theme  of  Juliette's  perfections,  to  what 
might  have  been  the  tune  of  a  tarantella:  now  it  ceased. 
She  laughed  in  the  Roumanian's  face,  and  cried,  still 
laughing : 

"A  child!  ...  A  schoolgirl — who  has  seen  no  more  of 


266  THE   MAN  OE  IRON 

the  world  than  the  pearl  in  the  oyster!  All  this  is  too 
funny — give  you  my  word!" 

Said  Straz,  lolling  his  head  against  the  chair-back  and 
licking  his  red  lips  cattishly: 

"Ah,  but  when  the  pearl-diver  opened  the  oyster,  he 
said:  'Here  is  a  gem  worth  a  Kingdom,  or  an  Empire, 
when  it  shall  be  polished  and  properly  set!'  ' 

"  'Or  an  Empire!'  ' 

She  echoed  the  three  words,  throwing  her  head  back  in 
imitation  of  Straz 's  attitude,  and  looking  at  him  with 
languid  provocation.  Then  she  yawned,  showing  her  per- 
fect teeth  and  the  tip  of  a  rosy  tongue,  and  remarked 
with  an  air  of  boredom : 

"My  friend,  whether  your  pearl  be  worth  an  Empire 
or  a  cabbage-plot,  your  chance  of  proving  its  value  is  for- 
ever forfeited,  thanks  to  the  obstinacy  of  M.  de  Bayard." 

Said  Straz: 

"Our  plan  would  have  been  easier  to  carry  out, — had 
M.  de  Bayard  been  more — complaisant." 

She  rose  up,  her  beautiful  face  livid  and  gray  under  its 
artificial  roses.  Her  eyebrows  writhed  like  little  live  snakes, 
her  eyes  burned "  like  wind-blown  torches.  She  spoke, 
looking  past  her  confederate  in  the  chair,  and  with  a 
voice  he  barely  recognized: 

' '  His  mother  must  have  prayed  her  Saints  for  this, ' '  she 
said,  "that  I  should  always  fail  in  the  moment  when 
triumph  seemed  most  sure.  Max  Valverden  would  have 
married  me — it  is  absolutely  certain! — had  not  Fate  sent 
him  back  on  leave  from  the  Staff  in  Austria  but  a  couple 
of  hours  too  soon.  "Weak,  sentimental  Max !  always  threat- 
ening extreme  measures.  Who  would  have  believed  him 
capable  of  carrying  out  that  menace  so  often  reiterated! 
But  this  I  know.  Had  he  confronted  me  with  what  his 
letter  termed  'the  unmistakable  proofs  of  my  appalling 
treachery,'  I  would  have  convinced  him  even  against  the 
testimony  of  his  own  ears  and  eyes.  But  De  Bayard — but 
my  husband! " 

She  had  forgotten  Straz;  she  saw  nothing  but  her  own 
frustrated  ambitions,  the  dead  body  of  the  man  whose 
suicide  had  robbed  her  of  a  title,  and  the  living  husband 
whose  stern  rejection  of  her  overtures  had  left  her  forever 
outside  the  social  pale.  .  .  . 

"Do  I  not  know  the  man  he  is!    [With  another  it  would 


THE  MAN:  DE  IRON         267 

Eiave  been  so  easy.  He  would  have  granted  an  interview, 
— I  would  have  been  suppliant  and  humble — I  would  have 
told  my  tale  in  such  a  voice !  .  .  .  You  were  away.  ...  7 
was  young  and  inexperienced.  .  .  .  I  foolishly  yielded  to 
the  persuasions  of  another.  .  .  .  Once  I  had  let  Valverden 
kiss  me  I  felt  myself  smirched  for  ever.  I  fled  with  him 
because  I  dared  not  meet  your  eyes!" 

Straz  sniggered.    She  went  on,  not  hearing  him.   .   .   . 

"He  would  have  taken  me  to  his  heart  again.  Once 
reinstated  there  I  would  have  regained  the  entree  to 
Society.  For  a  woman  who  has  lived  within  the  pale — 
even  if  she  finds  it  better  fun  outside — it  is  hideous  to  be 
declassee.  A  few  triumphs, — a  little  intriguing — and  I 
should  have  been  received  at  Court.  .  .  .  For  the  Emperor 
is  above  all  a  man  of  the  world ;  and  the  Empress  loves  to 
surround  herself  with  beautiful  and  witty  women.  With 
gifts,  talents,  charm  like  mine,  I  should  have  carried  all 
before  me! — I  should  have  reigned — I  should  have  drunk 
the  wine  of  Success  from  a  goblet  of  diamond." 

"Without  doubt,"  agreed  Straz,  "had  M.  le  Colonel 
consented  to  receive  you.  Yet  I  contend,  his  refusal  is  a 
hopeful  sign,  if  it  means  that  he  is  afraid." 

She  winced  as  though  he  had  thrust  a  knife  in  her  side, 
and  cried  out: 

' '  Afraid !  You  do  not  know  him.  ...  No ! — I  tell  you, 
that  it  is  to  him  as  though  I  had  never  existed.  .  .  .  Did 
we  meet,  he  would  look  me  in  the  face — pass  me  by  with- 
out the  twitch  of  a  muscle — without  the  nicker  of  a  glance. 
.  .  .  But  you  have  shown  me  how  I  may  reach  his  heart 
— and  one  day  I  shall  thrust  my  hand  into  his  breast  and 
tear  it  out  and  trample  on  it.  ...  It  is  she — my  daughter 
— who  will  accomplish  this!  .  .  ." 

Said  Straz,  pushing  back  his  chair,  getting  up  and  blow- 
ing his  nose  loudly: 

"Then  the  sooner  we  exchange  these  avenues  of  dusty 
lime-trees,  choked  with  crowds  of  bellowing  Teutons,  for 
the  boulevards  of  Paris,  the  better.  We  shall,  of  course,  be 
forced  to  return  by  a  detour  via  Brussels — the  Rhine 
Valley  railways  being  reserved  for  the  transport  of  troops. 
Passports  can  be  had  on  application  to  the  usual  authori- 
ties. The  only  insuperable  obstacle  to  our  departure  is — 
the  bill!" 

Madame  came  back  to  consciousness  of  sordid  things  as 


268  THE   MANi  DE  IRON 

the  Roumanian  ostentatiously  turned  out  his  trouser- 
pockets. 

"You  are  at  an  impasse  for  lack  of  funds?"  she  asked 
him. 

' '  Upon  my  life,  my  soul ! ' '  Straz  smilingly  assured  her, 
"I  am  at  present  without  a  radish!  A  sum  of  two  thalers 
negotiable  currency  constitutes  my  stock  of  cash.  Although, 
as  I  have  told  you,  I  carry  secreted  on  my  person  an  order 
for" — he  tapped  his  bosom — "ten  thousand  francs  pay- 
able from  the  Secret  Funds  of  the  Imperial  Government. 

This  I  tried  to  cash  before  I  left  Paris "  He  measured 

off  an  infinitesimal  quantity  of  finger-nail  and  displayed  it 
to  her.  ' '  Do  you  think  I  got  a  franc  from  anyone  ?  No ! — 
you  know  better!  The  Emperor's  methods  are  under- 
stood too  well.  And  thus  it  is  that  the  disinclination  of 
M.  de  Bismarck  to  finance  our  plan  for  the  union  of  two 
young  and  ingenuous  lovers  has  hit  me  in  the  midriff.  A 
thousand  curses  on  his  niggardliness!" 

As  though  prompted  by  some  recollection  of  Adelaide's 
previous  display  of  tragic  passion,  he  scowled  portentously, 
spat  at  the  fireplace,  then  began  to  strut  about,  vaporing 
and  waving  his  ringed,  hairy-backed  hands. 

"Penniless.  .  .  .  What  damnable  absurdity!  The 
Emissary  of  a  Potentate !  The  Bearer  of  the  Bowstring — 
with  Life  or  Death  in  my  hand.  For  lack  of  cash  I  travel 
second-class  to  that  accursed  South  German  Principality — 
I  stoop  to  put  up  at  a  third-rate  inn.  My  Mission  per- 
formed, I  yield  to  the  promptings  of  my  ardent  nature. 
In  the  company  of  her  who  reigns  sultana  of  my  soul, — 
who  for  my  sake  has  shared  the  discomforts  of  that  abom- 
inable caravanserai — I  return  to  the  barbarous  capital  of 
the  Hohenzollerns — I  risk  my  person  in  the  streets  of 
Berlin.  Had  my  brain  been  cooler — had  your  image  glowed 
less  seductively  before  my  mental  vision" — he  rolled  his 
black  eyes  amorously  and  laid  a  thick  ringed  hand  upon 
his  breast — "it  may  be  that  I  should  not  have  accom- 
panied you, — that  I  might  have  hurried  back  express  to 
Paris — presented  myself  to  my  Imperial  master — and 
reaped  the  golden  prize!" 

"Say  rather,"  responded  Madame,  in  a  tone  not  un- 
tinged  with  acrimony,  "that  as  the  result  of  your  unsuc- 
cessful endeavor  to  enlist  the  interest  of  M.  de  Bismarck 
in  that  charming  plan  to  unite  two  ingenuous  young  people 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  269 

— you  are  placed  in  a  position  that  is  not  without  un- 
pleasant possibilities.  My  beaux  yeux  are  less  to  blame 
than  your  ambition  'to  kill,'  as  the  English  say,  'two  birds 
with  one  stone!'  You " 

"Say  'we,'  not  'you,'  my  divine  Adelaide,"  corrected 
Straz,  with  tender  insistence,  "for  if  not  in  actuality  hus- 
band and  wife,  we  are  thus  inscribed  upon  the  bureau- 
register.  'One  in  sorrow,  one  in  joy,'  to  quote  a  poet  of 
my  nation.  I  wish  you  were  acquainted  with  the  verses 
of  Stepan  Mieciwycz.  They  would  afford  you  exquisite 
delight." 

"Possibly,"  said  Madame,  with  an  ominous  hardening 
of  the  facial  muscles,  and  a  whiteness  about  the  lips. 
''What  does  not  afford  me  delight  is  that  these  brigands 
downstairs  have  threatened  to  seize  our  luggage  if  their 
claim  is  not  satisfied  within  an  hour." 

"Sapristi!"  commented  the  Roumanian.  "A  beautiful 
imbroglio!  And — as  I  have  no  luggage — beyond  a  travel- 
ing valise, ' '  he  added  with  a  gentle  snigger,  ' '  your  trunks, 
bonnet-boxes,  imperials,  traveling-bags,  and  so  forth — 
must  become  the  prey  of  the  management.  It  grieves  me 
to  the  soul  that  you  should  suffer  this  denudation  at  the 
hands  of  these  coarse  Germans.  But  what  I  cannot  pre- 
vent, I  can  but  deplore!" 

* '  And  if, ' '  she  said  in  a  vibrating  voice  of  anger,  ' '  these 
coarse  Germans  should  lay  hands  upon  your  person,  for 
the  purpose  of  ascertaining  for  themselves  the  state  of 
your  purse  !  .  .  .  What  then  ? ' ' 

"What  then?"  Straz 's  cynical  composure  broke  up. 
"Istenem! — Istenem!  Nothing  could  be  more  dangerous! 
My  letter  of  instructions  from  M.  de  Gramont,  annotated 
in  the  Emperor's  own  hand!  The  official  letter,  of  intro- 
duction from  the  Minister  to  Prince  Antony — the  copies  of 
those  three  telegrams  His  Highness  sent  from  Sigmaringen 
— the  order  on  the  Privy  Purse — all  concealed  in  a  silk 
belt  I  am  in  the  habit  of  wearing — these  Prussians  will  find 
the  papers  should  they  search  me  to  the  skin.  Then  I, 
with  my  ivife "  He  italicized  the  sentences. 

' '  One  in  sorrow  as  in  joy,  I  think  you  said ! ' '  interpolated 
Madame,  bitterly. 

"We  should  be  arrested — dragged  before  official  inter- 
rogators ! — imprisoned ! — Oh !  do  not  imagine  I  am  laying 
on  the  colors  too  thickly.  Is  it  incredible  that  M.  de 


270  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Bismarck  might  welcome  an  opportunity — pending  the 
result  of  this  war — to  turn  the  key  on  us?" 

"Why  on  us?"  demanded  Adelaide.  "Do  /  wear  a 
silken  belt  containing  incriminating  letters?  Orders  on 
the  Secret  Funds  .  .  .  copies  of  Hohenzollern  telegrams  ?" 

Straz  looked  at  her,  and  his  black  stare  hardened  sus- 
piciously. The  swift  Oriental  blood  that  pigmented  his 
eyes  and  skin,  and  fed  the  luxuriant  growth  of  hair  upon 
him,  leaped  in  the  dark  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  been 
betrayed.  He  said,  smiling,  and  speaking  with  a  lisp,  a 
trick  of  his  that  boded  ill,  had  she  but  known  it: 

"Not  to  my  knowledge.  ...  I  have  never  searched 
while  you  were  sleeping, — or  spiced  the  draught  that  made 
the  sleep  profound." 

"My  thanks,"  she  said,  keeping  her  countenance  mag- 
nificently, "for  the  glass  of  mulled  Burgundy  I  gave  you 
when  you  returned  from  the  Schloss.  You  were  suffering 
from  chill — you  shivered  and  burned  alternately.  .  .  . 
Like  a  woman,  I  did  what  I  could — and  you  are  ungrate- 
ful, like  all  other  men." 

"My  soul,"  simpered  Straz,  "I  adore  you  madly.  But 
like  every  other  man,  I  am  a  son  of  Adam,  and  you  are  a 
daughter  of  Madame  Eve.  And  a  little  snake  hisses  in 
my  ear  whenever  I  am  not  looking  at  you:  'She  would  be 
truer  to  her  sex  if  she  were  false!' ' 

"Nicolas!  This  is  too  much!  No,  no,  I  beg  of  you  to 
let  me  leave  you!" 

Adelaide  had  put  her  hand  to  her  heart,  given  him  a 
look  in  which  passionate  tenderness  seemed  to  strive  with 
wounded  pride,  quitted  her  chair,  and  hurried,  the  Rou- 
manian hot  upon  her  heels,  to  the  door  communicating 
with  the  boudoir.  Detained  by  his  feverish  grasp  upon 
her  hand,  prisoned  by  the  muscular  arm  about  her  waist, 
she  could  only  reiterate  her  desire  for  freedom.  Straz 
asseverated : 

"Yes!  when  you  have  forgiven  me!  Pardon,  beloved 
Adelaide!  Life  of  my  life,  you  know  we  Slavs  are  natu- 
rally suspicious — it  is  always  in  our  blood!" 

He  thrust  his  face  to  hers,  amorously  ogling.  The  slight 
thickening  of  the  consonants,  due  to  catarrh,  made  his 
passionate  speech  sound  grotesquely  ridiculous.  The  ap- 
proach of  his  mouth,  the  contact  of  his  breath,  reminded 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  271 

the  fastidious  Adelaide  that  such  colds  could  be  trans- 
ferred. So  she  smiled  dazzlingly  upon  him,  and  gently 
freed  herself  from  his  enfolding  tentacles,  leaning  her 
softly-tinted  cheek  downwards  to  the  shoulder  her  own 
overtopped. 

"You  are  pardoned,  my  beloved  one!  But  think  with 
me  how  this  bill  may  be  settled!  What  if  you  really 
should  be  in  danger  in  this  place!" 

He  shrugged  hopelessly,  and  ejaculated: 

"  Sapristi!  I  can  conceive  it  possible.  .  .  .  But — 
hampered  by  the  lack  of  money,  what  are  we  to  do?" 

She  said  with  a  start,  as  if  suddenly  enlightened: 

"Dearest,  I  have  some  jewels.  .  .  .  Think  nothing  of 
the  sacrifice!  .  .  .  "Will  it  not  be  made  for  him  who  is 
more  to  me  than  all?  .  .  ." 

' '  Angel !  .  .  .  Now  I  know,  indeed,  that  Adelaide  is  true 
to  me !  Pardon  thy  slave,  who  dared  to  deem  otherwise ! ' ' 

Straz  devoured  her  hand  with  kisses,  became  more  en- 
terprising as  she  grew,  or  seemed  to  grow,  more  yielding. 
But  she  put  him  from  her,  suffering  her  bright  glance  to 
linger  on  him  amorously,  saying  in  tones  of  liquid  sweet- 
ness, with  a  bewitching  accent  of  rebuke : 

"Be  good  now!  I  am  tired,  and  must  positively  dine 
in  my  room  to-night.  My  maid  will  bring  you  in  a  few 
moments  a  case  containing — what  I  mentioned  just  now. 
Late  as  it  is,  shops  are  still  open  .  .  .  there  is  a  firm 
of  jewelers — Miiller  and  Stettig  in  the  Charlotten-Strasse, 
who  will  buy  such  things  for  ready  money.  ...  It  should 
bring  sufficient  to  supply  us  with  funds  for  a  long  time. 
.  .  .  Poor  Valverden  paid  eighteen  thousand  thalers  for 
it!"  She  added  as  Straz  licked  his  lips  appreciatively: 
"  It  is  a  star  of  emeralds  and  brilliants  you  have  often  seen 
me  wear." 

' '  Thou  art  my  star !    O  incomparable  Adelaide ! ' ' 

She  pushed  him  from  her,  yet  oozing  with  impassioned 
admiration.  She  gently  shut  the  boudoir-door — and  noise- 
lessly shot  the  bolt.  Then  her  face  changed,  and  all  her 
disgust  for  Straz,  his  cheap  compliments — his  slovenliness 
• — his  arrogance  and  self-satisfaction,  his  impecuniousness 
and  his  cold  in  the  head,  was  written  on  her  face  and  ex- 
pressed by  every  movement  of  her  body.  She  ran  across 
the  boudoir,  abandoning  her  air  of  languor,  burst  into  the 
bedroom  beyond,  and  aroused  a  dozing  maid. 


272  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

""Wake  up,  Mariette !  Find  me — it  is  in  the  red  morocco 
jewel-case  in  the  brown  leather  imperial — the  diamond  star 
with  emerald  points!" 

While  the  woman  rummaged,  the  mistress  swiftly  re- 
viewed the  situation.  The  cold,  clear  brain  that  dwelt 
behind  that  velvet  mask  of  sensuous  beauty  had  formu- 
lated a  plan  for  getting  rid  of  the  Slav. 

He  would  be  an  enemy  dangerous  as  a  rattlesnake,  she 
told  herself.  But — trap  your  rattlesnake,  and  he  cannot 
bite.  On  the  other  hand,  his  subtle  capacity  for  intrigue 
— his  swift  Oriental  cunning — even  his  masculine  strength, 
— made  of  him  a  useful  ally,  even  when  he  had  no  more 
secrets  for  a  clever  woman  to  ferret  out  and  sell. 

For  the  brief  telegram  in  cipher,  dispatched  by  Madame 
to  a  studiously  unsuspicious  address  in  Berlin  before  night- 
fall of  the  day  of  the  arrival  in  Sigmaringen — with  the 
later-sent  copies  of  Gramont's  letters — the  formal  intro- 
duction which  had  secured  the  Agent  from  the  Tuileries 
an  audience  of  Prince  Antony,  and  the  four  pages  of 
secret  instructions  margined  with  the  Emperor's  annota- 
tions, had  brought  in  a  handsome  sum  of  money,  thanks 
to  the  potency  of  mulled  Burgundy  heavily  dosed  with 
laudanum.  Adelaide  had  known  a  moment  of  deadly  ter- 
ror when  the  Slav 's  black  eyes  had  looked  at  her  with  that 
sinister  stare  of  suspicion,  and  his  conjectures  had  leaped 
in  the  dark,  so  very  near  the  actual  verity.  She  felt  no 
desire  to  encounter  that  look  again. 

So  she  pondered,  fingering  the  bulky  roll  of  Prussian 
banknotes  paid  her  by  Privy  Councillor  Bucher  a  few  days 
previously,-— how  she  might  best  get  rid  of  Straz  without 
another  scene.  His  Oriental  cunning,  his  childish  vanity, 
his  petulance  and  sensuality,  his  colossal  greed  of  money 
and  money's  worth,  blinded  her  to  the  ruthlessness  and 
ferocity  of  his  tigerish  nature,  and  provoked  her  to  brave 
a  risk  far  greater  than  she  guessed. 

She  would  get  rid  of  him — play  the  game  he  had  devised, 
without  him;  and  win,  in  spite  of  cold  water  thrown  by 
M.  de  Bismarck.  The  trap  he  had  planned  to  catch  the 
son  of  the  Emperor  should  yet  be  set  successfully.  Was 
not  the  intended  bait  of  living  maiden's  flesh  her  own? 

She  felt  no  pity  for  the  innocence  of  the  girl,  or  for  the 
inexperience  of  the  stripling.  She  was  curious  to  know 
how — under  given  circumstances — they  would  comport 


THE    MAN   OE   IRON  273 

themselves;  she  was  eager  to  bring  to  terms  the  Minister 
who  had  contemptuously  rejected  her  proposal — she 
thirsted  above  all  for  revenge  upon  the  husband  she  had 
wronged. 

Straz  stood  in  the  way,  therefore  Straz  must  be  swept 
aside.  His  mission  to  Prince  Antony  performed,  the 
Napoleon  would  have  no  more  use  for  the  instrument. 
Perhaps  that  order  on  the  Privy  Purse  would  never  be 
paid? 

She  arrived  at  this  conclusion  as  the  maid  brought  the 
red  morocco  jewel-case.  She  unlocked  it  with  a  key  she 
wore  in  a  bracelet,  and  drew  out  a  shagreen-covered  box 
containing  the  vaunted  ornament.  It  had  not  been  given 
her  by  her  dead  lover ;  the  story  of  the  thousands  spent  on 
it  was  no  more  reliable  than  the  doubleted  emeralds,  and 
the  thin  central  star  of  diamonds  set  flush  with  the  gold 
setting  of  the  toy. 

But  it  looked  well;  and  Straz  was  no  good  judge  of 
jewels,  and  she  had  not  paid  Miiller  and  Stettig  the  mod- 
erate sum  demanded  as  its  price.  The  merchants  had  been 
rude  enough  to  dun  her,  and  when  Straz  should  appear 
and  tender  the  article  for  sale  to  them,  the  manager  would 
summon  a  policeman,  and  the  Roumanian  would  be  de- 
tained. He  would  refer  to  herself,  but  long  before  a  repre- 
sentative of  the  firm  could  appear  to  interrogate  her,  she 
would  have  paid  the  hotel-bill  and  departed,  leaving  the 
price  of  the  trinket  in  the  hands  of  the  management. 
Flaws  in  the  plan,  no  doubt,  but  on  the  whole  it  was 
workable.  She  rose,  took  the  star  from  the  case  stamped 
with  the  too-revealing,  names  of  Miiller  and  Stettig,  glanced 
in  the  mirror,  left  the  bedroom  and  swept  through  the 
boudoir. 

"Nicolas!"  she  whispered,  unbolting  the  door  noise- 
lessly, and  opening  it  a  little  way. 

"My  Peri,  I  am  here!"  snuffled  the  impassioned  Rou- 
manian. 

She  opened  the  door  a  little  further,  and  thrust  out  a 
white  palm  cradling  the  glittering  gewgaw.  He  pounced 
on  it,  leaving  a  kiss  instead. 

"Remember,  Miiller  and  Stettig,  85  Charlotten  Strasse. 
Fly!" 

"Sultana,  I  depart  upon  the  wings  of  Love,  to  return 
like  the  bee  to  the  rose,  laden  with  golden  pollen." 


274  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Your  wings,  unlucky  bee,  will  be  clipped  by  a  police- 
man," Madame  said  inwardly,  as  the  drawing-room  door 
shut  and  the  Slav's  footsteps  crossed  the  little  ante-room. 
There  was  a  murmur  of  voices,  that  of  Straz  raised  as  if  in 
surprise  or  interrogation.  Probably  the  gilt-buttoned 
functionary  had  been  lying  in  wait  for  him  with  the  hotel- 
bill.  She  listened  a  moment,  heard  no  more,  and  went 
back,  saying  to  her  attendant : 

"Pack  everything.     We  leave  at  once  for  Brussels." 

The  maid  said,  with  peculiar  demureness: 

"And  Monsieur,  Madame?" 

Her  mistress  told  her: 

"Monsieur  has  gone  to  call  upon  his  bankers." 

The  maid  responded  with  even  greater  demureness: 

"Madame  should  know  that  in  her  absence  Monsieur 
endeavored ' ' 

Madame  said  hastily: 

"Pay  no  heed.  These  are  customs  common  in  Rou- 
mania ! ' ' 

The  woman  continued,  bridling  with  all  the  scorn 
Lesbia's  waiting-maid  feels  for  the  penniless  gallant: 

"Monsieur  endeavored  to  borrow  of  me  ten  thalers.  ..." 

Madame  shrugged  and  bade  her: 

"Go  on  with  your  packing!  Monsieur  does  not  accom- 
pany us!" 

And  without  the  exchange  of  another  word  the  mistress 
and  maid  understood  each  other  perfectly.  The  impe- 
cunious Straz  was  to  be  jettisoned  for  the  lightening  of  the 
ship. 

Meanwhile,  Fate  willed  the  Slav  should  encounter  on  the 
threshold  of  the  ante-room  the  emissary  of  Messrs.  Muller 
and  Stettig,  who  had  called  for  the  third  time  to  demand 
payment  of  the  bill.  This  being  offered  for  his  inspection 
as  the  responsible  male  of  the  party,  threw  unexpected 
light  on  the  intentions  of  Adelaide. 

"Sixteen  hundred  thalers,"  he  murmured.  "Reason- 
able, too — most  reasonable !  I  have  seen  Madame  wearing 
the  ornament,  and  admired  it  very  much.  Yes,  if  you 
desire  it,  I  will  speak  to  the  lady.  It  is  doubtless  mere 
forgetfulness  that  has  deferred  the  settlement  of  your 
claim.  Wait  here ! ' ' 

He  unwound  a  knitted  silk  scarf  that  was  folded  round 
his  bull-neck.  He  turned  down  the  collar  of  his  Astrakhan- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  275 

lined  coat,  and  went  back  with  noiseless  steps.  The  door 
of  the  boudoir  was  ajar.  He  satisfied  himself  that  Adelaide 
was  in  the  bedroom  beyond  it.  He  stepped  in,  glanced 
about  him,  formulating  his  plan,  then  locked  the  boudoir- 
door,  put  the  key  in  his  pocket,  crossed  the  room,  and 
knocked  upon  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  swiftly  stepping 
aside,  so  that  the  door — which  opened  outward, — should 
conceal  him  from  those  within. 

' '  Who  is  it  knocks  ?  Open  and  see ! "  he  heard  Madame 
command  her  maid  within  the  bedroom.  The  maid  ap- 
peared, crossed  the  boudoir,  found  the  door  fast,  and  re- 
turned to  tell  her  mistress.  But  then  she  found  the  door 
of  the  bedroom  she  had  quitted  was  bolted  on  the  other 
side.  There  was  no  sound  within,  but  a  kind  of  rustling, 
and  once  or  twice  a  footstep  on  the  carpet.  So,  with  the 
patience  of  her  caste,  the  maid  sat  down  upon  a  sofa 
until  it  should  please  her  lady  to  undo  the  bedroom- 
door. 

Her  lady  was  incommoded  by  the  grip  of  Straz's  thick 
hairy  hands  upon  her  windpipe.  He  freed  one  in  a  mo- 
ment— and  then  Adelaide  was  being  blinded  by  the  folds 
of  a  silken  scarf.  .  .  .  Long,  wide,  and  elastic,  it  served 
the  Roumanian 's  purpose  admirably.  Perhaps  it  had  been 
useful  in  that  particular  way  before.  And  as  he  rolled 
and  twisted  it,  he  whispered  sniggeringly  in  the  little  pearl- 
white  ear  that  jutted  from  between  the  crimson  swathings, 
almost  as  though  it  had  been  purposely  left  free : 

' '  So,  my  Sultana ! — so, — you  would  betray  me !   .    .    .  " 

Enveloped,  she  stammered  through  the  silken  meshes 
some  barely  intelligible  sentences.  The  folds  tightened 
chokingly — and  the  words  died  in  a  gasp. 

"Mercy!   .    .    .   Forgive!   ..." 

"Surely,  my  proud  Sultana,"  said  the  thickish  voice 
with  the  catarrhal  snuffle  in  it.  "What  will  men  not 
pardon  to  beauty  such  as  yours!" 

She  moaned  and  strove  to  tear  away  the  smooth  bands 
that  were  suffocating  her.  He  whipped  a  velvet  ribbon 
from  the  toilet-table,  brought  down  her  hands,  and  bound 
them  behind  her  back.  That  little  shell-shaped  ear  was 
purplish  by  this  time.  At  the  point  of  losing  conscious- 
ness, she  felt  him  softly  groping  for  the  treasure  hidden  in 
her  bosom — she  heard  the  crackling  of  the  roll  of  notes 
withdrawn. 


276  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

"Do  not  .  .  .!"  she  tried  to  say,  but  no  sound  came 
from  her  but  a  groaning;  and  through  the  roaring  of  her 
blood  she  heard  him  answer  back: 

"Do  not  rob  you!  would  you  plead,  my  peerless  Ade- 
laide? Far  from  it.  I  merely  take  from  you  what  is  my 
own!  For — there  was  the  taste  of  opium  in  my  mouth 
when  I  awakened  in  Love's  embraces.  And  conviction, 
stronger  than  proof,  convinces  me  that  I  have  been  sold. 
Else  why  this  store  of  honey  in  the  breast  of  the  Queen  of 
the  garden,  while  the  black  bee  was  sent  roaming  to  gather 
store  elsewhere  ?  Eh,  eh !  I  think  I  could  manage  to  guess 
at  the  reason  why  I  was  to  have  been  detained  by  those 
jewelers  on  suspicion  of  theft!  My  Sultana  would  have 
vanished,  leaving  no  address  behind  her.  .  .  .  1st  en-em! 
but  the  emerald  star  would  have  served  your  purpose 
well!" 

There  was  a  silence.  Rings  of  fire,  stars  of  emerald 
whirled  before  Adelaide's  blinded  vision. 

' '  Do  not  be  afraid,  my  Queen,  I  am  not  going  to  murder 
you!"  chuckled  the  thick  voice  in  the  little  swollen  black- 
ening ear.  "Only  to  spoil  your  beauty  a  little — nothing 
more  terrible.  Your  eyes  will  be  less  clear,  your  skin 
less  dazzlingly  unblemished,  after  this  experience.  You 
will  never  again  look  in  your  mirror  without  remembering 
me!" 

Rocking  and  swaying,  ready  to  fall,  she  was  only  kept 
upright  by  the  arm  of  Straz  about  her  body.  She  felt  him 
free  that  arm,  shifting  her  weight  against  his  great  chest, 
and  as  she  lay  blind  and  helpless  there,  his  snigger  vibrated 
through  her  horribly.  Then — the  smooth,  slippery  folds  of 
the  silk  scarf  tightened  murderously,  stopping  all  breath, 
shutting  out  consciousness.  Whelmed  in  an  abyss  of 
Nothingness,  she  felt  and  knew  no  more.  .  .  . 

"Madame  is  a  little  unwell,"  said  Straz,  who  regained 
the  ante-chamber  by  the  way  of  a  dressing-room  com- 
municating with  Madame 's  bedroom.  "She  will  call  on 
Messrs.  Miiller  and  Stettig  to-morrow,  and  settle  their 
account.  Meanwhile" — for  the  representative  of  the  firm 
•was  beginning  to  expostulate — "she  returns  the  emerald- 
pointed  star  with  her  regrets. ' '  He  added  smilingly  as  the 
relieved  employe  gratefully  pocketed  the  trinket:  "Ladies 
are  not  business-like  in  these  little  matters  of  money. 
But  Heaven,  who  inspired  in  man  the  desire  to  see  them 


THE    MAN   OF    IRON  27T 

well-dressed,  has  conferred  on  him  the  privilege  of  paying 
their  bills." 

He  accompanied  the  jeweler's  foreman  down  to  the 
vestibule,  chatting  agreeably.  He  carried  no  valise,  so 
was  allowed  to  pass  out  with  the  man.  Keeping  one  thick, 
hairy-backed  hand  thrust  down  into  a  pocket  of  his  Astra- 
khan-furbished shooting- jacket,  close-clutched  upon  the 
solid  roll  of  Prussian  banknotes,  reft  from  that  smooth 
and  perfumed  hiding-place. 


XXXI 

"THE  CEOWN  PRINCE,"  wrote  P.  C.  Breagh,  "and  the  Red 
Prince — as  people  nickname  Friedrich  Karl  of  Prussia,  in 
virtue  of  his  partiality  for  the  crimson  uniform  of  his 
regiment,  the  Ziethen  Hussars, — have  departed  amidst 
scenes  of  overwhelming  enthusiasm,  to  take  over  the  re- 
spective commands  of  the  Third  and  Second  Army  Corps. 
On  July  31st,  at  half-past-five  noon,  the  very  day  on  which 
I  pen  these  lines,  the  aged  Sovereign  drove  in  an  open 
landau  drawn  by  two  superb  black  Hungarian  horses  to 
join  his  Ministers  and  his  Chief  of  the  Great  Staff  at  the 
station,  where  waited  the  special  train  destined  to  convey 
the  venerable  Commander-in- Chief  of  the  Field  Armies  of 
Germany  to  the  immediate  Seat  of  War." 

There  was  a  jolt,  the  pencil  bucked  furiously,  and  the 
writer's  skull  came  smartly  into  contact  with  the  un- 
cushioned  seat-back  of  the  gray-painted,  semi-partitioned 
railway  transport-car,  in  which,  with  some  forty  blue- 
uniformed  infantrymen  of  the  Prussian  Guard,  P.  C. 
Breagh  was  being  hurried  toward  the  Rhine  frontier,  ill 
a  din  so  comprehensive  that  you  could  only  make  your 
neighbor  hear  by  putting  your  mouth  to  his  ear  and 
bawling,  and  in  an  atmosphere  so  thick  with  dust  and 
smells,  of  varied  degrees  of  intensity  and  picturesqueness, 
that  you  drew  it  into  your  lungs  in  gulps  and  exhaled  it 
with  sensible  effort. 

The  partly-glazed  windows  did  not  let  down,  bars  began 
where  the  glass  left  off,  and  therefore  the  N.C.O.'s  of  the 
eighth  of  a  company  appropriated  to  themselves  the 
corner-seats.  Sandwiched  between  two  large  and  heated 


278  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

warriors,  with  his  unstrapped  knapsack  on  his  knee,  and 
his  elbows  jammed  immovably  against  his  lower  ribs,  P.  C. 
BrEagh  abandoned  the  impulse  to  rub  his  bump,  and  con- 
tinued to  write,  using  the  old  straw  hat  which  crowned 
the  knapsack  as  a  support  for  a  notebook. 

"The  Queen,"  he  went  on,  "who  was  evidently  labor- 
ing under  the  influence  of  emotion,  accompanied  His 
Majesty.  A  thunderstorm  coruscated  and  detonated  over- 
head as  the  Royal  salute  of  guns  crashed  out,  and  King 
Wilhelm's  subjects  greeted  him  with  round  upon  round  of 
enthusiastic  'Hock's.'  The  object  of  their  acclamations 
kept  continually  smoothing  his  heavy  white  mustache 
with  the  right,  ungloved  hand,  between  the  salutes  with 
which  he  acknowledged  the  plaudits  of  his  people — a  char- 
acteristic gesture  of  the  veteran  monarch  when  ..." 

The  pencil  faltered.  "Under  the  influence  of  emotion" 
could  not  be  used  again,  because  it  had  already  done  duty 
for  the  Queen,  whose  eyes,  poor  lady!  had  been  red  with 
crying.  P.  C.  Breagh  knocked  off  to  sharpen  his  pencil 
and  read  over  what  he  had  set  down.  "Coruscated  and 
detonated"  pleased  him,  though  to  have  said  that  the 
thunderstorm  had  growled  and  blazed  would  have  been  a 
good  deal  nearer  the  mark.  And  "characteristic  gesture" 
was  loftier  language  than  "familiar  trick"  or  "habit." 
Mr.  Knewbit  would  have  snorted  at  it,  it  was  true,  but 
this  was  not  one  of  Mr.  Knewbit  *s  stipulated-for  letters, 
"describing  in  a  style  readable  by  plain,  ordinary,  every- 
day people,  what  you've  seen  and  heard,  and  felt,  and 
smelled." 

Still,  one  could  not  hope  to  please  everybody— and  this 
was  a  descriptive  article — not  a  chatty  news-letter.  "When 
complete,  it  would  be  forwarded  to  the  Editor  of  a  Leading 
Daily,  with  the  brief  intimation  that  more  like  it  might  be 
had — at  a  price.  That  it  would  draw  commissions,  P.  C. 
Breagh  believed  implicitly.  There  was  a  stately  stodginess 
about  the  style  that  could  not  fail  to  impress.  So  he  con- 
tinued as  "Die  Wacht  am  Rhein"  broke  out  once  more; 
and  the  deep  bass  notes  emitted  by  his  burly  right-hand 
neighbor  tickled  his  ribs  and  made  him  goosefleshy. 

"The  aged  monarch  seemed  weary,  it  appeared  to  me." 

"Ach,  ach!  but  the  old  man  looks  tired!"  people  in  the 
front  had  holloaed  to  one  another.  All  the  week-end  one 
had  seen  the  King  bowling  up,  and  down,  and  round-about 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  279 

Berlin  in  his  little  one-torse  carriage,  with  a  single, 
mounted  orderly-officer  in  attendance;  giving  out  colors, 
addressing  the  regiments,  conversing  in  short,  soldierly 
sentences  with  the  field-officers  in  command. 

"Baron  von  Moltke,  Chief  of  the  Great  General  Staff," 
went  on  the  pencil,  "the  War-Minister  General  von  Eoon, 
and  the  Federal  Chancellor  and  Minister-President  Gen- 
eral Count  von  Bismarck-Schonhausen,  with  the  personnel 
of  the  Great  Headquarters  Staff  and  the  mobilized  Foreign 
Office,  received  His  Majesty  at  the  railway-station,  taste- 
fully adorned  with  black-and-white  bunting,  carpeted  with, 
red,  and  garlanded  with  roses,  said  to  be  the  favorite 
floral  emblem  of  the  septuagenarian  potentate.  .  .  . " 

It  could  not  be  denied  by  P.  C^  Breagh, — the  painfully 
hammered-out  paragraphs  smacked  of  the  sample  supplied 
by  Mr.  Knewbit  for  avoidance.  "Sham  technicality  and 
sentimental  slumgullion, "  he  seemed  to  hear  that  rigorous 
critic  saying,  so  loudly  and  in  such  a  pouncing  manner, 
that  P.  C.  Breagh  hurriedly  scratched  out  the  sentence 
about  the  floral  emblems,  though  "septuagenarian  poten- 
tate" must  be  reserved  for  use  later,  as  offering  a  refresh- 
ing change  from  "aged  King"  and  "veteran"  or  "vener- 
able monarch."  "Hoary-headed  Ruler"  would  come  in 
usefully  by-and-by.  .  .  . 

Bump — bump — jolt,  ker-link-Jcer-lank  ker-lunk!   .    .    . 

The  two  powerful  engines,  pulling  a  train-load  of  fully 
two-thirds  of  a  regiment  at  fullest  war-strength,  were  slow- 
ing up  at  a  station:  ...  A  roar  of  voices  kept  con- 
tinually at  crescendo  hailed  the  arrival.  Another  roar, 
mixed  with  fragments  of  patriotic  song,  replied.  The  plat- 
form presented  a  sea  of  heads  of  both  sexes,  backed  by  an 
imposing  array  of  shelves,  decorated  with  foliage,  dangling 
lamps  and  national  bunting;  surmounted  by  a  bust  of  the 
King  between  busts  of  Moltke  and  Bismarck,  and  literally 
groaning  under  piles  of  sausages,  loaves,  cheeses,  oleaginous 
packages  of  sandwiches  and  pastry — rows  of  gilt  and  sil- 
ver-foiled wine-bottles,  and  then  more  rows.  .  .  . 

Barre]s  of  genuine  Berlin  beer,  adorned  with  the  Hohen- 
zollern  colors,  stood  hospitably  ready  to  replenish  glasses 
and  mugs.  Filled  with  the  amber  nectar,  trays  of  these, 
suspended  from  the  shoulders  of  stalwart  youths,  wearing 
Red  Cross  arm-badges,  and  white-muslin-draped  maidens 
adorned  with  crimson  sashes,  waited  to  quench  the  thirst 


280  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

of  Prussia's  soldier  sons.  And  taking  in  the  condition  of 
things  at  a  glance,  said  one  of  the  two  N.C.O.'s  in  charge 
of  the  party: 

"Himmeldonnenvetter!  .  .  .  Lads,  there  seems  no  help 
for  it.  We  have  got  to  tuck  in  again!" 

And  simultaneously  with  the  bass  response:  "At  your 
service,  Herr  Sergeant!"  and  almost  before  the  slow- 
going  locomotives  stopped,  panting  Samaritans  hurled 
themselves  upon  the  carriages,  and  arms  ending  in  hands 
proffering  packages  of  comestibles  and  tobacco,  bottles  of 
beer  or  frothing  glasses,  or  packets  of  cigars,  were  thrust 
in  between  the  window-bars,  until  every  man's  jaws  were 
busy,  and  every  man's  hands  were  laden.  .  .  .  Until  even 
the  modestly  retiring  P.  C.  Breagh  had  been  compelled  to 
accept  a  mighty  hunk  of  iced  plum-cake  and  a  giant  pack- 
age of  liver-sandwiches,  and  forced  to  empty  a  foaming 
beaker  of  brown  Bavarian. 

"Why  not,  why  not,  when  they  have  plenty  for  every- 
one?" hiccoughed  a  stalwart  private,  who  had  emptied 
many  mugs:  "Won't  every  fellow  of  the  regiment  find 
his  double-pint  waiting  him,  when  the  next  train  comes 
up?" 

There  was  plenty  for  everyone.  Not  only  the  troop- 
train  that  would  follow  this,  containing  the  odd  thousand 
rank-and-file  and  the  rest  of  the  regimental  officers,  would 
find  the  "cool  blonde"  and  the  "dark  brunette,"  the 
savory  snack  and  the  soothing  weed,  as  ready  for  the 
alleviation  of  possible  requirements  as  they  had  been 
at  every  halting-place — the  City  of  Hanover  severely  ex- 
cepted — since  the  huge  send-off  at  Berlin  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  previous  day. 

Every  class  contributed  to  the  refreshment  of  the  sol- 
diers. Wealthy  brewers  sent  drayloads  of  barrels,  rich 
aristocrats  gave  wines  from  their  cellars.  The  bakers  be- 
stowed bread,  the  pork-butchers  contributed  hams  and 
sausages,  the  tobacconists  cigars  and  pipe-tobacco.  While 
the  cook  baked  cakes  with  her  perquisites  of  lard  and 
dripping :  and  the  servant-maid  took  from  her  scant  savings 
for  the  purchase  of  a  gross  of  match-boxes,  to  distribute 
at  the  station  when  the  military  trains  came  in. 

Poor  was  the  wight  who  could  be  liberal  in  nothing. 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  281 

And  thus  thought  the  little  old  woman  when  she  cooked 
her  dozen  ginger-snaps. 

She  was  a  tiny  little  monkey-faced  old  peasant,  in  a 
frilled  white  mutch,  jaded  red  shawl,  blue  apron  and 
brown-striped  drugget  petticoat ;  and  she  stood  quite  alone 
in  a  clear  space  left  upon  the  platform  of  a  little  country 
station,  as  the  eager  philanthropists  about  her  crowded  to 
lavish  hospitality  on  the  inmates  of  the  incoming  train. 
As  the  pastry  and  the  cakes,  the  coffee,  beer,  and  spirits 
flowed  in  at  the  windows  and  down  the  throats  of  the 
wearers  of  the  blue,  white-faced  Guard  uniforms,  this  little 
old  woman  made  no  effort  to  offer  her  ginger-snaps,  which 
were  ranged  in  three  rows  of  four  on  a  dingy  white  cloth 
in  a  little  broken  basket,  and  were  palpably  melting  under 
the  rays  of  an  ardent  July  sun. 

Her  timidity  and  her  feebleness  had  kept  her  back,  but 
when  the  Colonel  in  command  issued  the  order  to  entrain, 
and  the  officers  who  had  clanked  in  pairs  up  and  down  the 
platform,  good-humoredly  answering  the  questions  of  old 
ladies,  and  gallantly  returning  the  admiring  glances  of 
young  ones,  accepting  a  leaf-full  of  fruit  here,  or  a  glass 
of  Ehine  wine  or  a  cigarette  there, — began  to  take  their 
places, — she  mustered  courage  to  hold  up  her  basket  to 
a  dandy  young  subaltern  and  murmur:  "Please  to 
take!" 

Next  moment — the  dandy  could  not  have  meant  it, — 
but  as  he  pushed  away  the  extended  basket,  and  swung 
round  upon  his  heel,  his  silver  sword-knot  caught  in  the 
frayed  cloth  or  broken  wicker-work,  and  down  went  the 
basket,  and  the  snaps  were  spilt  upon  the  ground.  .  .  . 

' '  Thou  dear  God ! ' '  the  little  old  woman  cried  in  anguish. 
"Ach — ach!  the  good,  the  delicious  ginger-snaps!  .  .  . 
Who  now  will  eat  them?  Ach! — Ach!" 

And  up  to  her  poor  eyes  went  her  blue  apron.  It  was 
a  terrible  tragedy  to  her.  Some  people  pitied  her.  Others 
were  heartless  enough  to  laugh  after  the  fashion  of  the 
blond,  red-lipped  officer — and  to  laugh  once  more  at  the 
summary  fashion  of  his  setting-down. 

For  a  terrible,  rasping  voice  said,  speaking  behind  the 
dandy  subaltern,  and  full  four  inches  above  the  level  of  his 
ear: 

' '  Under-Lieutenant  Fahle  will  remedy  the  damage  done 


282  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

by  his  carelessness  before  he  resumes  his  place  in  the 
train!" 

Thus  the  train  waited  while  the  offender,  blood-red  with 
rage  and  confusion,  picked  up  the  sticky  brown  cakes 
with  his  snowily  gloved  fingers,  and  replaced  them  in  the 
broken  basket,  amidst  the  little  old  woman's  humble  apol- 
ogies, and  entreaties  that  the  gracious  gentleman  would 
not  trouble  himself.  When  the  Colonel,  owner  of  the 
rasping  voice  above  referred  to,  in  conjunction  with  a 
bushy  scarlet  beard  and  bristling  mustaches,  a  stately 
height  of  six  feet  four  inches,  a  regulation  waist,  and  three 
rows  of  decorations,  performed  an  act  of  bravery  for  which 
he  deserved  another  medal  still.  For,  selecting  the  snap 
that  looked  cleanest,  this  dauntless  warrior  gravely  took  it 
between  his  thumb  and  finger,  bit  a  piece  out,  and  declared 
it  excellent.  Then,  amidst  the  rapturous  plaudits  of  the 
onlookers,  he  solemnly  saluted  the  twittering  old  lady,  and 
swung  himself  loftily  back  into  his  carriage,  thundering 
out  once  more  the  order: 

"Entrain!" 

Conceive  the  banging  of  doors,  the  bumping  and  clank- 
ing, the  cheers  and  the  tears  da  capo,  and  the  curtseys 
the  little  old  woman  dropped,  one  after  another,  almost 
faster  than  one  could  count.  Suppose  the  train  moving 
slowly  on,  and  a  tricksy  spirit  inspiring  a  wag  among  the 
rank-and-file  aboard,  to  shout  to  her: 

"Hey  there,  Mother  Ginger-snaps!  give  us  one  before 
we  go!" 

Twenty  voices  took  up  the  cry,  and  blue  cloth-covered 
arms  were  thrust  out  between  the  carriage  window-bars. 
Hands  waggled,  soliciting  the  sugary  boon.  And  the  little 
old  woman,  torn  between  the  desire  to  give  and  the  im- 
possibility of  giving, — danced  like  a  hen  on  a  hot  griddle, 
until  a  giant  porter,  compassionating  her  plight,  snatched 
her  up  like  a  large  doll,  and  ran  with  her  beside  the  mov- 
ing carriages,  holding  her  out  at  arm's  length,  as  she  up- 
held her  basket,  until  all  the  ginger-snaps  were  gone. 

Instinctively  as  P.  C.  Breagh  had  felt  that  the  cumbrous 
grandiloquence  of  his  descriptive  article  would  be  snorted 
at  by  Mr.  Knewbit,  so  he  knew  that  the  little  incident  of 
the  ginger-snaps  would  afford  his  patron  delight.  There- 
fore he  tucked  it  away  in  a  safe  pigeon-hole  of  his  memory, 
with  a  description  of  the  rough,  gay-painted,  crowded 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  283 

wooden  box  lie  sat  in,  odoriferous  with  its  conglomera- 
tion of  smells,  based  on  the  combined  stenches  of  tallow 
and  perspiring  humanity,  laced  with  the  sharp  sour  of 
malt,  and  mercifully  tempered  with  the  fumes  of  strong 
tobacco. 

Piff!  The  hot,  cinder-flavored  draughts  that  raced  in 
over  the  glazed  half-windows  were  powerless  to  freshen  or 
dilute  the  atmosphere.  Yet  among  the  varied  types  of 
men  who,  their  heavy  knapsacks  disposed  in  iron  racks 
above  them,  sat  packed  as  close  as  sardines  on  the  narrow 
benches,  were  not  a  few,  who,  judging  by  the  mute  evidence 
of  their  well-groomed  skins  and  carefully  kept  finger-nails, 
their  finer  hair  and  more  clearly  modeled  features,  be- 
longed to  Germany's  upper  class. 

Shriek!  The  train  plunged  into  a  cutting  ending  in  a 
tunnel  of  sheer  blackness.  Bursting,  with  another  shriek, 
into  the  light  of  day,  she  raced  for  a  while  neck-and-neck 
with  a  cavalry-train.  They  were  Red  Dragoon  Guards  and 
White  Cuirassiers  of  the  Great  Headquarters  Staff,  and 
they  exchanged  cheers  and  sharp,  staccato  shouts  of 
"Hurrah,  Preussen!"  with  the  infantry  of  the  Guard,  as 
the  latter  were  hurried  by. 

Nothing  was  left  to  Chance.  All  was  deadly,  methodical 
accuracy.  The  keen,  clear  brain  under  Moltke 's  wig  con- 
trolled the  speed  of  every  train  upon  the  six  Rhine  and 
Moselle  railways  over  which  the  Army  of  United  Germany 
was  rolling  to  inundate  France. 

Trains,   trains,  trains ! 

Trains  of  trucks,  laden  with  gabions  woven  of  split 
beech-saplings,  with  oaken  lascines  and  bales  of  empty 
earth-bags.  Commissariat  trains  of  wagons  packed  with 
sheep  and  cattle,  and  the  ubiquitous  pig  of  the  Fatherland. 
Coffee-and-sugar  trains,  trains  of  pea-sausage  and  the 
rock-hard  brown  biscuit  wherewith  "Our  Moltke"  fed  his 
soldier  men.  Trains  of  spare  arms,  clothing,  trenching- 
tools  and  cooking-utensils ;  trains  of  cartridges,  gunpowder, 
blasting-powder,  solid  shot,  shrapnel,  and  the  big  pro- 
jectiles destined  for  the  siege-guns ;  with  trains  upon  trains 
close-packed  with  the  men  who  were  to  use  these  things, — 
took  precedence  or  gave  it,  because  the  withered  finger 
beckoned  or  waved.  .  .  . 

' '  Our  Moltke, ' '  so  mild  and  affable  and  courteous,  truly, 
when  the  Genius  that  possessed  thee  spread  his  steely 


284  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

wings  and  soared,  thou  wert  a  very  terrible  old  man,  or 
so  it  seems  to  me. 

The  descriptive  article  laid  by,  you  found  P.  C.  Breagh, 
in  the  interests  of  Mr.  Knewbit,  studying  his  fellow-trav- 
elers. The  weak-eyed,  spectacled  young  soldier  on  his 
left-hand,  whose  fingers  were  burned  and  yellow-stained,  as 
though  their  owner  had  dabbled  in  chemical  experiments, 
and  who  had  remained  mute  as  a  fish  throughout  the 
journey,  only  opening  his  mouth  to  eat  or  drink,  or  reply 
to  a  remark  addressed  to  him  by  a  non-commissioned 
officer,  was  reading  the  "Iliad"  of  Homer  in  the  original, 
from  a  little  parchment-bound,  Amsterdam-printed  El- 
zevir edition,  that  he  seemed  to  cherish  as  the  apple  of 
one  of  his  short-sighted  eyes.  ...  A  handsome  young 
bugler  in  the  next  compartment  had  a  well-thumbed  copy 
of  "The  Pickwick  Papers."  The  huge  tanned  Guardsman 
on  his  right,  whose  broad  breast  displayed  the  medals  of 
1866  and  of  the  Schleswig-Holstein  campaign,  and  whose 
powerful  bass  notes  had  reverberated  through  the  dia- 
phragm of  his  neighbor  when  he  sang,  was  chatting  with 
a  younger  comrade  who  sat  opposite.  Holding  the  well- 
greased  unburnished  needle-gun  between  their  solid  thighs 
— to  hang  the  silver-spiked  Guard's  helmet  on  the  muzzle 
seemed  a  popular  way  of  disposing  of  the  headpiece — they 
exchanged  experiences  in  a  genial  roar,  subdued  to  a  growl 
at  confidential  passages. 

"Grete  came  to  the  Barracks  to  bid  me  God-speed.  .  .  . 
There  were  a  few  tears — dried  when  I  promised  to  bring 
her  a  wedding-gift  from  Paris.  Thou  seest,  she  is  going 
to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  get  married  to  a  waiter  at  a 
Sommer-garten — a  club-footed  man  who  is  not  called  upon 
to  serve — being  on  the  Exempt  List." 

They  guffawed  at  the  picture  of  the  happy  bridegroom. 
Said  the  senior,  wiping  his  overflowing  eyes  with  a 
hand  as  brown  and  broad  as  an  undersized  flitch  of 
bacon : 

"I  looked  up  'Mina  in  the  Landsberger-Strasse.  She 
could  not  meet  me,  as  her  old  woman  had  a  betrothal- 
party  for  one  of  her  daughters.  A  young  student  from  a 
Conservatoire,  in  a  tail-coat  three  sizes  too  small  for  him, 
and  a  pair  of  linen  cuffs  as  big  as  starched  table-napkins,, 
was  the  victim  served  up.  I  saw  him  as  'Mina  carried  in 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  285 

the  spiced  wine  and  rum-punch,  and  a  longer  pair  of 
lantern- jaws  I  never  saw.  But  when  they  sat  down  to 
table,  and  I  took  another  peep  through  the  door-crack,  I 
promise  you  those  jaws  of  his  were  grinding  away  like 
steam ! ' ' 

"Nu,  but  the  punch?"  asked  the  other  Guards- 
man. 

"Sapperlot! — do  you  suppose  I  went  without  my  whack 
of  it  ? — and  'Mina  's  eyes  as  red  as  preserved  cherries  with 
crying  about  my  going  to  the  War?  I  had  had  a  mug  of 
the  good  stuff,  and  a  bottle  of  something  or  other! — gilt 
paper  on  the  neck  of  it — nothing  at  all  but  fizzle  inside. 
Then  I  settled  down  to  a  jug  of  cool  beer  and  the  breast 
of  a  turkey,  while  'Mina  was  waiting  on  the  parlor-folks. 
Heard  her  step  coming  along  the  passage — thought  I'd 
play  the  fool  with  her  a  bit — so  I  turned  the  kitchen-gas 
low  and  hid  behind  the  door.  In  she  comes! — I'd  got  my 
arms  round  her  and  kissed  her — a  regular  juicy  smack  or 
two,  before — by  the  yell  she  gave! — I  knew  it  wasn't 
'Mina  at  all.  ..." 

"Potzblitz!  who  was  it,  then?" 

"Who  but  the  old  woman?  But  for  the  thumping  size 
of  the  waist  I'd  squeezed,  and  the  taste  of  violet-powder 
in  my  mouth,  I  might  have  thought  I'd  got  hold  of  one  of 
the  young  Frauleins.  'Help,  murder,  thieves!'  cried  she. 
'How  dare  you  insult  a  respectable  mother  of  a  family! 
Give  your  name,  you  rogue,  or  I  '11  have  in  the  police ! ' 
— 'Don't  do  that,'  says  I.  'I'm  only  'Mina's  brother — • 
dropped  in  to  take  leave  before  going  to  the  War!' — 'A 
fine  brother!'  says  she.  'Do  brothers  hug  their  sisters  in 
that  bearish  way  ?  Be  off  with  you  quick  march !  and 
think  yourself  lucky  to  escape  so  easily ! '  .  .  . "  He 
wound  up :  "  But  if  she  had  reported  me  to  the  Herr 
Oberst  Leutnant,  nothing  much  would  have  come  of  it. 
He'd  have  said:  'Was  soil  Ich! — but  we're  off  to  the 
War!'  ' 

A  sentence  or  so  more,  and  the  conversation  resolved 
itself  into  strong  tobacco-smoke.  Twilight  was  fading  into 
dusk.  Dortmund — Elberfeld — Diisseldorf  had  paid  tribute 
of  beers,  cheers,  and  tears  to  the  defenders  of  German 
Unity,  the  most  inveterate  songsters  and  conversationalists 
were  getting  sleepy,  and  it  would  be  midnight  before  the 
troop-train,  traveling,  like  the  others  that  followed  it,  at 


286  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

a  speed  strictly  calculated  to  permit  of  the  somewhat  slower 
transit  of  six  supplementary  trains  bearing  the  King  and 
his  Great  Headquarter  Staff — could  reach  Cologne. 

The  lamps,  adding  the  flavor  of  hot  kerosene  to  the 
conglomeration  of  odors — had  been  lighted  at  Diisseldorf. 
The  tobacco-reek  had  grown  so  dense  that  below  their  band 
of  yellow  light  was  a  sharply  defined  band  of  opaque  blue 
fog,  in  which  medium  colors  were  neutralized  to  mono- 
chrome, and  outlines  of  sleeping,  or  chatting,  or  card-play- 
ing, or  reading  soldiers  blurred  into  vagueness,  wavered, 
and  were  blotted  out  for  P.  C.  Breagh  in  a  sudden  doze. 

He  wakened  at  a  late  hour,  to  the  iron  measure  clanked 
and  ground  and  beaten  out  by  couplings  and  brakes, 
wheels  and  axles.  Snores  of  all  kinds — from  the  shrill 
clarionet-note  of  the  spectacled  student  of  Homer  to  the 
deep  'cello-bass  of  the  Guardsman  who  had  hugged  'Mina  's 
mistress  in  mistake  for  his  sweetheart — resounded  on  all 
sides;  the  tobacco- fog  had  somewhat  thinned. 

Finding  it  possible  to  move,  because  his  burly  neighbor 
was  soundly  sleeping,  pillowed  upon  the  body  of  the  man 
upon  his  right  hand,  P.  C.  Breagh  yawned — recovered  his 
knapsack,  which  had  slipped  from  his  knees  to  a  floor 
which  in  point  of  cleanliness  left  much  to  be  desired,  re- 
moved from  it  with  a  fragment  of  newspaper  the  worst 
impurities  it  had  contracted  by  contact,  threw  the  news- 
paper out  of  the  nearest  window  and,  in  the  performance 
of  this  act,  caught  a  not  unfriendly  eye. 

Its  owner,  a  huge  young  man,  who,  occupying  a  place  on 
the  end  of  the  same  seat,  had  been  hitherto  screened  by 
the  body  of  the  huger  private  who  had  kissed  not  wisely, 
said,  and  in  English  of  the  Oxford  brand : 

' '  You  find  our  men  lacking  in  good  manners  ?  Yet  there 
is  much  spitting  on  the  part  of  English  soldiers,  when  they 
are  standing  at  ease,  or  off  duty.  I  have  myself  observed 
this." 

"Then  you  know  England?"  P.  C.  Breagh  interrogated, 
and  the  private,  who  was  very  tall,  very  blond,  very  broad- 
shouldered,  straight-featured,  blue-eyed,  and  small-waisted, 
answered : 

"Pretty  well.  I  have  a  relative  who  married  a  lady 
who  is  your  countrywoman.  I  have  been  the  guest  of  her 
family  at  their  London  house.  You  speak  our  language, 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  28? 

for  I  have  heard  you.  And  with  a  North  Prussian  accent, 
by  the  way." 

P.  C.  Breagh  returned: 

"I  spent  three  years  at  Schwarz-Brettingen.  With  the 
sole  result  that  I  can  make  myself  understood  by  Ger- 
mans who  don't  speak  English.  And  that  I  owe  to  my 
landlady." 

Said  the  Guardsman,  yawning  and  smiling: 

"My  father  sent  me  to  Oxford.  Three  terms  have 
yielded  this  result, — that  I  can  converse  with  Englishmen 
who  know  German.  Thanks  to  a  charming  young  lady,  a 
niece  of  the  relative  I  spoke  of  just  now,  who  was  so  good 
as  to  read  the  poems  of  Tennyson  with  me.  '  The  Princess, ' 
'In  Memoriam,'  and  'Maud,'  were  her  chief  favorites — 
I  preferred  his  epics  founded  on  the  Arthurian  legend. 
Though  my  charming  English  cousin  was  often  vexed  with 
me  for  saying  that  our  Wagner's  verse-drama  of  the 
Nibelungen-Ring  possessed  far  truer  inspiration,  and  that 
'Die  Walkiire'  and  'Tristan'  would  have  been  finer  than 
anything  Tennyson  has  ever  written,^-had  they  existed 
simply  as  poems,  and  never  been  wedded  to  music  at  all. 
At  that  the  young  English  lady  was  angry ;  she  said  things 
to  me  in  her  indignation  which  were  terrible ;  but  she  for- 
gave me,  because  I  was  compelled  to  leave  the  University 
and  return  to  Germany  to  put  in  my  term  of  service  as  a 
private,  before  I  present  myself  as  a  candidate  for  an 
officer's  silver  sword-knot  in  the  usual  course  of  things. 
You  are,  perhaps,  acquainted  with  our  German  methods 
of  qualifying  for  a  Commission?  Bismarck  has  two  sons 
serving  as  troopers  with  the  1st  Dragoon  Guards ;  whereas 
a  private  of  Ours  is  a  nephew  of  Moltke  's,  and  two  or  three 
others  are  cadets  of  princely  families — representatives  of 
what  your  countrymen  would  call  the  'aristocracy  of  Ger- 
many.' Perhaps  one  or  two  of  them  will  find  that  silver 
sword-knot  they  are  looking  for — across  the  frontier,  some- 
where between  the  Rhine  and  the  Moselle !  .  .  . " 

"When  do  you  think  there  will  be  fighting?" 

Inexpressibly  P.  C.  Breagh  yearned  to  know  when  and 
where  the  dance  was  expected  to  begin.  But  his  eagerness 
seemed  to  freeze  the  loquacious  Guardsman,  whose  blue 
eyes  narrowed,  whose  smile  stiffened,  whose  smooth  voice 
instantly  diverted  the  current  of  the  talk  to  other  things: 

"Were  you  at  the  Gala  Performance  at  the  Opera,  the 


288  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

night  before  last?  Delphine  Zucca  could  hardly  sing;  her 
husband,  young  Baron  von  Bladen,  of  the  Jastrow  Hus- 
sars, has  been  appointed  first  galloper  on  the  Staff  of  Gen- 
eral Manteuffel,  Chief  of  the  First  Corps,  First  Army.  So 
the  Zucca  is  naturally  inconsolable,  as  they've  only  been 
married  a  month.  But  Elise  Hahn-Tieck,  as  the  Genius 
of  United  Germany,  in  a  corslet  of  gilt  chain-mail,  and  a 
helmet  crested  with  oak-boughs,  with  a  green  Rhine  mean- 
dering over  her  white  muslin  robe,  was  tremendous  when 
she  came  down  to  the  center  of  the  stage  to  sing  'Die 
Wacht  am  Eli ein,'-— carrying  our  East  Prussian  Flag  and 
the  banner  of  the  Hohenzollern,  and  followed  by  other 
operatic  actresses  in  character  as  the  Auxiliary  States. 
Sapperlot!  "When  she  drew  her  sword,  she  was  tremen- 
dous! And  when  she  fell  upon  her  knees,  the  big  chan- 
delier in  the  auditorium  jumped.  She  sang  the  part  of 
Gretchen  last  season,  and  looked  not  much  over  thirty. 
Make-up,  because,  you  know,  she  has  a  grandson  who  is  a 
junior-lieutenant  in  the  Duke  of  Coburg's  Regiment  of 
White  Cuirassiers,  and  must  be  sixty  if  she's  a  day. 
Prime  donne  are  like  wines,  no  good  till  they've  arrived  at 
a  ripe  old  age.  Though  I  could  introduce  you  to  a  little 
girl  of  eighteen  or  so,  just  now  doing  a  song-and-dance  at 
the  Schiitzen-Strasse  Tingel-Tangel,  who  has  a  voice  that 
pleases  me  better  than  the  warblings  of  any  of  the  highly 
paid  Opera  House  nightingales.  And  what  a  figure !  round 
and  tempting  and  seductive.  And  such  arms,  and — 
Sapperlot! — what  a  pair  of  legs!" 

Thus  prattled  the  twenty-year-old  sprig  of  German  aris- 
tocracy, to  the  other  youngster,  his  senior  in  years  if  his 
junior  in  knowledge  of  the  world.  He  went  on  in  his 
Oxford  English: 

"Not  that  I'm  inclined  to  ruin  myself  for  women,  though 
I  must  say  a  good  many  pretty  ones  have  been  uncommonly 
kind  to  me.  That  sort  of  thing  runs  in  my  family,  though ! 
and  I  ought  to  be  obliged  to  my  Cousin  Max  for  dying  a 
bachelor.  Killed  himself  in  '66  about  a  mistress  who  was 
playing  the  double  game.  A  regular  French  adventuress, 
diabolically  handsome,  who  eloped  with  him  when  he  was 
attache  of  our  Prussian  Embassy  at  Paris  in  '57,  and  has  a 
husband  living,  they  say.  Colossal  impudence — actually 
passes  herself  off  as  my  cousin's  widow,  in  society  of  a 
certain  sort.  So,  out  of  the  desire  to  deal  Madame  Venus 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  289 

a  slap  in  the  face,  I  got  a  comrade  who  knew  her,  to  intro- 
duce me  at  a  festive  supper-party.  .  .  .  Said  he :  '  Coun- 
tess von  Sehon-Valverden,  permit  me  to  present  my  most 
intimate  friend,'  and  reels  off  my  name.  Would  you  be- 
lieve it,  the  woman  never  turned  a  hair.  It  was  I  who 
got  flustered  when  she  stared  me  in  the  face.  Colossal 
coolness — I  can  hear  her  now,  lisping:  'The  Herr  Count 
is  doubtless  a  relative  of  my  poor,  dear  Maximilian!  Even 
had  he  not  borne  the  name,  I  should  have  been  struck  by 
his  resemblance  to  my  beloved  lost  one.'  And  then  I  got 
out,  not  half  as  cleverly  as  I  had  planned  it:  'And  even 
had  you  borne  the  name  that  is  your  own,  Madame,  I 
should  have  been  shot  through  the  heart  by  the  beauty 
that  has  already  proved  fatal  to  one  member  of  my  fam- 
ily!' :  He  added,  "I  laid  an  emphasis  on  those  four 
words,  'shot  through  the  heart,'  because  my  unlucky  cousin 
actually  met  his  death  after  that  fashion.  .  .  .  Will  you 
have  a  cigar  of  mine?  They  are  better  than  the  weeds 
our  patriotic  friends  have  bestowed  on  us." 

P.  C.  Breagh  accepted  a  smooth  light-hued  Havana  from 
the  offered  case,  asking  with  interest,  due  to  the  lurid  flare 
of  tragedy  in  the  background  of  the  other 's  lively  chatter : 
"And  the  lady  of  the  Venusberg — how  did  she  take  your 
reference  to  her  past?" 

The  Guardsman,  cigar  in  mouth,  stopped  in  the  act  of 
striking  a  fusee-match  to  answer:  "She  took  it — as  a 
woman  of  Madame  de  Bayard's  stamp  might  be  expected 
to.  With  a  sangfroid  that  one  could  only  admire  some- 
what less  than  her  superb  skin  and  hair,  her  shape  of  a 
goddess  and  her  marvelous  eyes — almost  the  color  of 
Brazilian  tourmaline."  He  sent  out  a  spiral  of  fragrant 
brownish-blue  smoke  and  added:  "Had  I  actually  stood 
four  years  ago  in  the  shoes  which  I  have  legally  inher- 
ited, I'll  be  hanged  if  I'd  have  shot  myself  and  left  her 
to  my  rival.  For  the  other  was  at  Schonfeld — actually  in 
the  house,  you  must  know ! — when  Cousin  Max  came  home 
on  leave.  Hence  the  tragedy  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. Such  a  depressing  hour  to  commit  suicide.  Now, 
had  it  been  after  supper  .  .  . " 

He  shrugged,  and  sent  out  another  spiral  of  cigar-smoke, 
and,  perceiving  that  his  whilom  listener  heard  no  longer, 
ceased  to  talk. 

The  while  P.  C.  Breagh  plunged  into  a  brown-study  by 


290  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  chance  utterance  of  a  stranger's  name,  and  unblush- 
ingly  abandoning  the  effort  to  remain  true  to  his  gigantic 
type-ideal,  hung  fondly  over  the  mentally  evoked  image 
of  an  Infanta  in  miniature. 

Where  was  Juliette  de  Bayard  now?  Had  the  outbreak 
of  war  hastened  or  delayed  her  marriage  with  the  happy 
master  of  swordsmanship?  And — worshiping  her  father 
as  Monica  had  said  she  did — how  had  she  borne  the  parting 
from  him? 

She  would  be  very  calm.  .  .  .  P.  C.  Breagh  pictured 
the  little  face  drawn  and  pinched  with  misery;  saw  the 
sapphire  eyes  dimmed  with  tears  unshed,  imagined  the 
slender  throat  convulsed  with  sobs  that  were  kept  reso- 
lutely back,  heard  the  silver-flute  voice  saying : 

"My  father  has  honored  me  with  his  confidence  as  long 
as  I  can  remember,  sir ! "  and,  ' '  See  you — I  will  be  trusted 
absolutely,  or  I  will  not  be  trusted  at  all!" 

Strange  that  his  elfin  queen — his  carved  ivory  Princess 
— should  bear  the  same  name  as  the  woman  the  Guardsman, 
had  gossiped  of — the  beautiful,  evil  creature  with  the  eyes 
like  Brazilian  tourmalines.  And,  what  particular  color 
in  Brazilian  tourmalines  might  have  been  intended  ?  Some 
were  purple,  others  pink,  and  yet  others  reddish-brown. 
The  woman  who  had  dropped  her  parasol  on  the  staircase 
at  the  Chancellor's  had  had  eyes  of  tawny  wine-color. 
With  the  remembrance,  came  back  the  perfume  shaken 
from  her  rustling  silks  and  laces,  and  the  languid  echo  of 
her  caressing  voice. 

Drowsiness  came  next,  and  then  oblivion,  in  heavy 
slumber.  And,  as  the  unconscious  form  of  P.  C.  Breagh 
lapsed  this  way  and  that,  and  his  chin  burrowed  deeper 
into  his  bosom,  the  Sergeant  who  occupied  the  corner-seat 
facing  the  sleeper, — shading  his  eyes  from  the  lamplight 
with  a  broad  brown  hand  that  wore  a  thick  silver  wed- 
ding ring  upon  the  little  finger,  lowered  the  hand,  and, 
leaning  forward,  stared  in  the  young  man's  unconscious 
face,  with  small,  suspicious,  unwinking  eyes.  Now  the 
eyes  looked  round  so  sharply,  that  every  waking  man  in 
the  compartment,  save  the  blue-eyed  patron  of  the  Tingel- 
Tangel  girl,  found  it  necessary  to  assume  the  appearance 
of  slumber,  and  the  Sergeant 's  voice  said  hoarsely : 

"Private  von  Valverden!" 


291 

"At  your  service,  Herr  Sergeant." 

"Private  von  Valverden,  is  this  one,  then,  an  English- 
man?" 

'  *  Undoubtedly,    Herr   Sergeant ! ' ' 

"Gut!"  said  the  Sergeant.  "But  what  is  his  calling? 
Is  he  of  the  newspaper-offices  that  he  sits  and  scribbles 
so?" 

"That  question  I  cannot  answer,  Herr  Sergeant,  but 
if  he  be  on  the  staff  of  any  paper,  he  cannot  accompany  us 
without  a  Legitimation,  and  a  letter  from  someone  in 
authority. ' ' 

The  Sergeant  sucked  in  his  bearded  lips,  and  rolled  his 
sharp  little  eyes  more  suspiciously  than  ever.  Valverden 
went  on: 

"Doubtless  he  has  them — I  saw  him  show  a  paper  to 
the  Halt  Commandant  at  Berlin,  and  the  Herr  Colonel 
himself  spoke  to  him  and  told  him  he  might  travel  as 
far  as  Bingen  by  this  train.  And  I  happen  to  know 
that  four  London  newspaper  correspondents  have  been  ac- 
credited by  the  King  upon  the  instance  of  Count  Bismarck ; 
one  being  appointed  to  accompany  the  Crown  Prince, 
another  being  permitted  to  accompany  the  Second  Army, 
while  two  are  attached  to  the  Great  Headquarter  Staff." 

The  Sergeant  said,  glancing  at  the  unconscious  slum- 
berer : 

"Gut,  gut!  but  is  this  fellow  one  of  them?" 

"If  he  be  not,  Herr  Sergeant,  he  will  get  no  farther 
than  Bingen,  for  doubtless  the  Commandant  there  will  be 
on  the  lookout  for  persons  whose  credentials  are  not  of 
the  best." 

The  Sergeant  shook  his  head  vigorously,  wrinkling  up 
his  full-bearded  countenance  suspiciously: 

"And  suppose  the  Commandant  is  not  on  the  lookout, 
Private  von  Valverden?  See  you,  I  have  had  my  sus- 
picions since  yesterday,  and  I  tell  you  .  .  ." 


XXXII 

EVERY  waking  ear  in  the  neighborhood,  and  there  were 
now  a  good  many,  pricked  with  curiosity  as  the  Sergeant 
half -rose,  and,  inclining  his  inflamed  countenance  and 


292  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

bearded  lips  toward  the  ear  of  his  selected  confidant, 
continued  in  a  hoarse  rumbling  undertone : 

"Two  of  those  verdammte  English  newspaper-scribblers 
that  have  got  on  the  blind  side  of  Their  Excellencies  and 
His  Majesty  the  Commander-in-Chief  were  at  the  station 
at  Berlin  picking  up  information  the  very  day  we  en- 
trained. Well  do  I  know  that  paunchy  little  one  with  the 
big  beard,  who  has,  they  say,  as  many  Orders  as  a  Field- 
Marshal,  and  who  will  venture  to  thrust  himself  upon 
Our  Moltke  in  his  study,  and  accost  His  Excellency  Count 
Bismarck  upon  the  very  doorsteps  of  the  Reichstag  itself. 
They  got  off  three  trains  ahead  of  us,  paying  for  men  and 
horses  and  trucks,  to  Cologne;  and  if  this  fellow  were  not 
a  knave,  would  he  not  have  gone  with  them?  Ach,  ja! 
It  would  have  been  so!  But  they  did  not  even  know  him, 
though  he  pretended  to  touch  his  cap  to  them.  ...  I  tell 
you  he  turned  as  red  as  beetroot  when  they  passed  him 
without  a  glance.  Nu,  nu!  he  is  an  unlicensed  meddler, 
if  not  a  French  spy,  speaking  English.  Do  they  not  teach 
it  at  their  Lycees?  And  he  has  got  on  the  blind  side  of 
the  Commandant  at  Berlin  and  the  Herr  Colonel.  But  I, 
Sergeant  Schmidt,  have  my  weather-eye  open,  and  it 
sticks  in  my  gizzard  that  our  so-glorious  Moltke,  let 
alone  His  Majesty,  should  with  so  much  civility  these  quill- 
driving  vagabonds  encourage;  when  they  say  the  French 
Emperor  has  given  orders  that,  should  the  like  of  them 
about  the  heels  of  his  Army  Corps  be  caught  sniffing,  they 
are  to  be  shot." 

"Possibly  the  Napoleon  has  more  deficiencies  to  be 
ashamed  of  than  we  have,  Herr  Sergeant!" 

Taking  a  deep  breath,  the  Sergeant  blew  himself  out  to 
the  utmost  of  his  capacity  and  bellowed: 

"Himmeldonnerwetter!  are  you  going  to  insinuate  in 
my  presence  that  the  Prussian  Army  has  anything  at  all 
to  be  ashamed  of?  Now  you've  waked  this  rascal  with 
your  racket,  maybe  you'll  sit  on  his  head  while  I  go 
through  his  pockets.  Here,  Braun  and  Kleiss,  catch  hold 
of  his  arms  and  legs ! ' ' 

Waking  in  the  chiaroscuro  of  the  smoke-filled,  lamplit 
troop-carriage  to  find  himself  in  the  brawny  grip  of  the 
aforesaid  Braun  and  Kleiss,  P.  C.  Breagh  fought  for  free- 
dom, yelling  as  one  possessed,  and  lashing  out  with  all  his 
might.  In  the  heat  of  the  scrimmage  that  followed,  as  a 


THE    MAN   OF    IRON  293 

muscular  arm  in  a  coarse  blue  sleeve  came  round  his  neck 
from  behind  and  choked  him  into  silence,  somebody  said 
in  his  ear: 

"Keep  still  .  .  .  not  hurt  you!  Only  going  .  .  . 
search!" 

And  before  he  had  rallied  his  wits  sufficiently  to  realize 
that  the  warning  was  in  English,  a  pair  of  extra-sized 
hands  had  deftly  emptied  the  pockets  of  the  old  brown. 
Norfolk  jacket,  relieved  him  of  the  cherished  binoculars, 
a  brand-new  revolver,  and  a  purse  and  letter-case  that 
had  been  hidden  in  his  bosom  next  the  skin.  Then,  a 
soiled  newspaper  having  been  spread  upon  the  carriage- 
bench  and  the  pieces  of  conviction  arranged  upon  it,  Ser- 
geant Schmidt,  surrounded  by  an  audience  of  admiring1 
inferiors,  commenced  to  interrogate  their  owner: 

"What  is  this?"  He  held  up  the  well-used  briar-root. 
' '  A  pipe,  and  yet  it  might  be  used  to  conceal  dispatches  or 
tracings.  A  pistol  also.  On  the  principle  of  the  French 
mitraille,  with  many  barrels.  Prisoner,  answer!  Where 
did  you  get  this?" 

Returned  P.  C.  Breagh,  scarlet  and  breathing  shortly: 

' '  I  bought  it  in  Berlin  from  a  pawnbroker  in  the  Lands- 
berger-strasse.  By  what  right  .  .  .  " 

Someone  behind  hacked  him  on  the  ankle,  driving  home 
the  axiom  that  silence  was  wisdom,  and  he  subsided,  boil- 
ing within,  as  the  Colt,  a  nearly  brand-new  six-barreled 
weapon,  seen  and  purchased,  together  with  its  box  of  three 
hundred  cartridges,  for  seven  of  P.  C.  Breagh 's  cherished 
sovereigns,  was  laid  by,  while  the  Sergeant,  breathing 
stertorously,  examined  the  contents  of  the  purse.  He 
snorted,  letting  the  bright  coins  run  through  his  greedy 
fingers  like  yellow  water : 

"Nine  pieces  of  gold.  French  coins,  too,  or  call  me  a 
sheepshead ! ' ' 

"At  your  service,  Herr  Sergeant,"  put  in  the  smooth, 
well-bred  voice  of  Valverden,  following  on  the  ominous 
murmur  that  had  greeted  the  Sergeant's  announcement; 
"the  money  is  as  English  as  this  revolver  is  American. 
Prove  the  first  for  yourself.  When  has  the  French  Em- 
peror figured  in  a  woman's  hair  and  corsage?" 

A  guffaw  went  up.  P.  C.  Breagh,  recognizing  the  voice 
which  had  spoken  from  behind  him,  realized  that  here  was 
a  friend  in  need.  But  an  attempt  at  speech  on  his  part 


294  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

was  frustrated  by  an  ominous  tightening  of  the  muscular 
arm  that  had  previously  half-strangled  him.  The  Sergeant, 
his  fiery  pot-zeal  rather  damped  by  frequent  set-backs, 
snapped-to  the  purse  and  said,  keeping  it  tucked  in  one 
capacious  palm,  as  he  shook  out  the  contents  of  the  letter- 
case: 

"So!  He  is  cunning,  like  many  another  of  his  kidney. 
Yet  it  may  be  here  is  proof  sufficient  to  show  him  a 
rogue!  Who  here  reads  French?" 

' '  I  do,  Herr  Sergeant. ' '  Once  again  the  well-bred  voice 
of  Valverden.  The  Sergeant  grunted  surlily: 

"There  is  another  here   .    .    .  Private  Kunz!" 

The  spectacled  soldier  who  read  Homer  in  the  original, 
and  who  had  been  violently  displaced  when  the  muscular 
Braun  and  the  athletic  Kleiss  had  obeyed  the  order  to 
pinion  the  suspected  one,  shot  bolt  upright  in  his  distant 
corner,  saluted  and  said  in  a  meek  voice: 

"At  your  service,  Herr  Sergeant!" 

"Private  Kunz,  canst  thou  read  French?" 

"Zu  befehl,  Herr  Sergeant!"  The  spectacled  private 
added  as  the  Sergeant  passed  him  over  the  contents  of  the 
letter-case:  "But  these  letters  are  not  in  French.  Two 
are  in  English,  and  one  is  in  German." 

The  Sergeant  scowled  and  thundered: 

"Thou  art  an  ass!" 

"At  your  service,  Herr  Sergeant,"  mildly  agreed  the 
spectacled  soldier,  "but  Private  Count  von  Schon-Val- 
verden,  who  understands  the  French  and  English  lan- 
guages, will  corroborate  my  statement  if  you  will  kindly 
refer  to  him." 

'  'Kindly  refer.'  .  .  .  'Corroborate  my  statement.' 
.  .  .  "  The  Sergeant,  purple  in  the  gills,  and  with  bolting 
eyes,  loosened  his  collar-hook  before  he  launched  into 
profanity:  "Potzblitz!  Never  did  I  meet  with  language 
to  equal  thine.  What  wert  thou  as  a  civilian  before  thou 
didst  enter  the  Army  ? ' ' 

"Graduate  of  the  University  of  Wiirzburg,  Herr  Ser- 
geant," faltered  the  spectacled  Guardsman,  "and  Privat- 
docent  in  Chemistry  and  Philosophy.  Occupying  the  post 
of  assistant  to  Herr  Weber,  Dispensing  Chemist,  of  Strahl- 
sund,  near  Stettin." 

"Sehrgut,  Private  Kunz,"  said  the  Sergeant,  conscious 
of  the  grins  lurking  behind  the  respectful  faces  about  him. 
"Tell  us  plainly,  and  without  lying  or  skipping,  what 


MAN    OF    IRON  295 

are  these  papers  the  fellow  has  got  on  him?  Put  him 
back  on  the  seat,  Braun  and  Kleiss,  and  sit  on  either 
side,  each  taking  a  wing.  Now,  Kunz,  do  thou  be- 
gin!" 

And  the  little  sheaf  that  had  been  transferred  from  the 
horny  clutches  of  the  Sergeant,  to  the  yellow-stained 
sensitive-looking  fingers  of  the  chemist's  assistant,  was 
subjected  to  the  scrutiny  of  the  weak  eyes  behind  his  large 
round  spectacles,  as  sleepy-looking  Westphalian  villages  of 
cottages  with  tall  tiled  roofs,  grouped  about  squat,  low- 
spired  churches;  and  leagues  of  rye  and  barley,  almost 
ready  for  the  sickle,  streamed  by  the  half-glazed  windows, 
all  black  in  shadow  and  white  in  the  clear,  pure  radiance  of 
August's  crescent  moon. 

Item,  a  worn  letter  in  English  handwriting  of  the  legal 
kind,  dated  in  the  January  previous,  and  directed  to 
P.  C.  Breagh,  Esq.,  Care  of  Frau  Busch,  Jaeger-strasse, 
Schwarz-Brettingen.  Hem,,  a  passport  issued  some  ten 
days  previously,  to  the  same  person  on  application  at  the 
London  Foreign  Office,  on  disbursement  of  the  sum  of  Two 
Shillings,  and  authorizing  him,  on  payment  of  the  proper 
dues  and  at  his  own  risk,  to  proceed  via  Ostend  to  Berlin. 
Item,  another  passport,  procured  as  a  last  resource — grant- 
ing the  said  P.  C.  Breagh  permission  on  the  part  of  the 
Berlin  Foreign  Office,  and  as  a  strictly  non-combatant 
British  subject,  to  transfer  himself,  via  Belgium  and 
Luxembourg,  to  French  territory.  Lastly,  a  half-sheet  of 
tough  Chancellory  note-paper,  covered  with  the  large, 
closely-set,  vigorous  handwriting  of  the  man  who  was 
meant  when  newspaper-editors  and  politicians,  diplomats 
and  monarchs,  guttersnipes  and  generals,  talked  of  Prussia. 
What  would  happen  when  that  came  under  the  spectacles 
of  the  ex-chemist's  assistant?  P.  C.  Breagh  thirsted  to 
know. 

What  happened  was,  that  the  Sergeant,  rendered  im- 
patient by  delay  on  the  part  of  the  spectacled  one,  grabbed 
at  the  documents  and  dropped  them  on  the  unclean  floor. 
The  half-sheet  of  Chancellory  note  was  picked  up  by 
Valverden.  He  gave  it  one  glance  and  said,  smoothly  and 
with  an  indefinable  change  in  the  tone  of  the  voice  that 
P.  C.  Breagh  had  thought  so  friendly : 

"I  would  put  this  paper  back  with  the  rest  and  return 
them  to  their  owner,  Herr  Sergeant,  and  prosecute  no 
further  inquiries,  if  I  were  you." 


296  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Nu?  .  .  .  Was?  I  cannot  read  the  crabbed  stuff  that 
is  written  and  printed  on  the  other  papers,"  grunted  the 
Sergeant.  "But  this  seems  wholesome  German.  .  .  . 
What  says  it,  then?  Tell  us,  you,  since  that  gimpel  in 
glasses  can  make  nothing  of  it,  for  all  his  brag." 

Valverden  obeyed  and  read : 

"The  bearer  of  this  is  an  Englishman,  named  Patrick 
Carolan  Breagh,  speaking  German  with  a  slight  accent. 
Ileight  five  feet  nine  inches,  age  23.  Hair  reddish  and 
curling,  complexion  fresh,  much  freckled.  Short,  straight 
nose,  gray  eyes  with  dots  of  yellow,  chin  square,  slightly 
cleft.  Further  his  desire  to  proceed  with  our  troops,  if 
possible.  I  can  personally  vouch  for  his  honesty  and  good 
faith. 


1  BERLIN, 

"July,  1870." 


XXXIII 


P.  C.  BREACH  never  heard  the  order  given,  but  next  mo- 
ment his  aching  wrists  were  released  from  the  huge,  hard 
grip  of  Privates  Braun  and  Kleiss%  and  the  muscular  legs 
that  had  affectionately  twined  about  his  own,  were  with- 
drawn. Subsequently,  singly,  and  in  silence,  the  Sergeant 
handed  back  the  watch,  pipe,  tobacco-pouch,  purse,  and 
note-case.  Last  of  all,  Valverden,  making  a  long  arm, 
returned  the  half-sheet  of  Chancellory  note,  bearing  the 
signature  that  had  worked  the  miracle,  without  words,  and 
looking  coldly  in  its  owner's  face. 

"Thanks  tremendously!  .  .  .  I've  no  doubt  I'm  to 
blame  for  not  producing  my  credentials  earlier,"  said 
Carolan.  "But  I'd  no  notion  of  the  rather  serious  turn 
things  were  going  to  take.  However,  all's  well  that 
ends " 

His  smile  froze  upon  his  lips,  and  died  out  of  his  eyes  as 
he  encountered  the  stare  the  other  turned  upon  him,  an- 
swering haughtily: 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  297 

"I  regret  that  you  have  suffered  some  rough  handling 
from  my  comrades,  under  the  wrong  impression  that  you 
were  an  agent  of  the  French  Secret  Service.  Admitting 
that  our  own  side  act  advisedly  in  employing  persons  like 
you,  I  must  say  that  to  me,  personally,  a  spy  is — a  spy!" 

"But,  hang  it!  you  don't  suppose "  Carolan  choked 

out  after  a  moment  of  angry  bewilderment.  And  with  the 
Sergeant's  piggish  little  eyes  curiously  fixed  on  him,  Val- 
verden  answered  curtly: 

"I  suppose  nothing.  Excuse  me  from  further  conver- 
sation. ' ' 

The  revolver  with  its  cartridges  had  not  been  returned 
with  the  other  articles.  Its  owner  asked  the  Sergeant  for 
it,  getting  in  reply  only  a  glare.  Thenceforward  the  long 
night's  journey  for  one  traveler  was  performed  in  unbroken 
silence.  P.  C.  Breagh  had  been  dispatched  to  Coventry  by 
one  and  all. 

Men  who  conversed  spoke  in  barely-audible  whispers, 
their  covert  glances,  like  the  frigid  indifference  of  Val- 
verden's  regard,  and  the  extra  six  inches  of  seat-space 
accorded  to  the  holder  of  the  States  Chancellor's  written 
guarantee,  testified  to  the  aroma  of  suspicion  that  per- 
sonage's document  exhaled. 

So  at  breathless,  baking  midnight  the  troop-train  clanked 
into  Cologne,  no  longer  throbbing  with  the  beat  of  drums, 
roaring  with  iron-shod  wheels,  swarming  with  men  in 
brass-spiked  helmets,  choked  with  continuously  shouting 
patriots,  as  it  had  been  a  few  hours  earlier  when  the 
Headquarter  Staff  trains  had  passed  through, — and  in  the 
close,  gray  dawn  of  a  thundery  day,  jolted  into  Bingen. 

Here  miles  of  rolling-stock  and  numberless  engines 
blocked  up  the  metal  roads.  Shuttered  windows  and  bar- 
ricaded doors  testified  that  house-owners  had  temporarily 
abandoned  their  property.  Strings  of  barges,  laden  with 
Commissariat  stores  and  live-stock,  were  being  towed  up 
the  Rhine  by  the  gaily  painted,  white-awninged,  paddle- 
wheel  steamers  familiar  to  the  British  tourist,  while  others 
were  conveying  voluntarily  exiled  residents  and  fugitive 
visitors  down  the  classic  stream  out  of  harm's  way. 

Conveyance  by  railway — of  a  kind — was  to  be  had  upon 
terms  prohibitory  to  all  but  the  opulent.  And  disheveled 
ladies,  pale  or  red  with  panic,  besieged  the  station-master 


298  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

•and  his  master,  the  Halt  Commandant — with  prayers,  com- 
mands and  entreaties,  for  places,  but  for  places  on  some 
Northward-going  train.  .  .  . 

Something  was  in  the  air  besides  the  short,  staccato 
bugle-calls,  the  scream  of  signal-whistles  and  the  ceaseless 
beating  of  the  Prussian  side-drums.  P.  C.  Breagh  knew 
it,  even  as  a  tall,  lean,  red-faced  Inspector  caught  his  eye 
and  beckoned  him  imperiously  to  quit  his  cage,  asking: 

"You  have  a  Legitimation  to  proceed  with  the  troops  to 
Kreuznach?  No?  Then  be  good  enough  to  stand  aside 
until  I  have  an  opportunity  of  ascertaining  why  you  were 
originally  permitted.  Here  is  the  Commandant." 

Standing  on  the  whitewashed  platform,  hot,  dusty,  un- 
brushed  and  unwashed,  burdened  with  his  unstrapped 
knapsack,  a  stout  walking-stick,  a  leather-covered,  screw 
topped  sling  water-bottle,  some  crumpled  newspapers  and 
a  package  of  solid  sandwiches — thrust  upon  him  at  one  of 
the  previous  stopping-places,  P.  C.  Breagh  was  conscious 
of  cutting  a  sorry  figure.  Conscious,  too,  of  Valverden's 
supercilious  eye-glass,  glittering  a  few  yards  off,  as  he 
stretched  his  long  legs  on  the  platform  and  talked  eagerly 
with  some  comrades  of  his  own  standing,  straight-backed, 
long-legged  youngsters,  with  arrogant  manners,  clear 
eyes,  budding  mustaches,  newly  fledged  whiskers,  broad 
shoulders  and  regulation  waists. 

No  new  pupil  at  a  young  ladies'  boarding  school,  smart- 
ing under  the  double  stigma  of  plainness  and  poverty,  no 
cheaply  arrayed  debutante  at  a  suburban  subscription-ball, 
ever  blushed  more  hotly  or  winced  more  painfully  under 
the  scrutiny  of  prettier  and  richer  girls,  than  did  P.  C. 
Breagh  under  the  glances  of  these  young  men. 

Not  the  memory  of  the  Army  Service  examinations  he 
had  failed  in  galled  him,  or  that  missed  shot  for  the  I.C.S., 
or  the  University  career  foregone.  It  was  the  word  "spy" 
that  rankled  in  his  memory  and  took  the  starch  out  of  his 
self-conceit. 

Before  the  discovery  of  the  Minister's  written  guarantee, 
Valverden  had  gossiped  with  him  as  an  equal — the  other 
Guardsmen  had  been  friendly  in  their  rougher  way.  The 
fateful  half-sheet  of  Chancellory  note  had  changed  every- 
thing. "As  though  one  had  blossomed  out  in  plague 
or  smallpox,"  P.  C.  Breagh  had  said  to  himself  bitterly. 


THE   MAN   OE  IRON  299 

"And  I  feel  like  a  kind  of  Ali  Baba  or  somebody,  whose 
talisman  would  only  work  upside  down ! ' ' 

Even  his  parting  salute  had  met  with  grudging  acknowl- 
edgment. The  Sergeant  had  grunted.  Braun  and  Kleiss 
had  spat,  and  looked  the  other  way.  Valverden's  finger 
had  barely  brushed  the  narrow  peak  of  his  forage-cap. 
Only  Kunz,  the  spectacled  ex-chemist's  assistant,  had 
civilly  bidden  the  parting  guest  good-day. 

He  was  horribly  sore  at  the  treatment  received  from 
Yalverden.  Susceptible  of  hero-worship,  warm  and  sincere 
in  feeling,  he  had  taken  a  liking  to  the  brilliant  youngster, 
three  years  his  junior,  his  superior  in  social  status  and  in 
cynical  knowledge  of  the  world.  Was  it  disgraceful  to 
belong  to  the  Prussian  Diplomatic  Secret  Intelligence  De- 
partment, that  ramifying  spider-web  of  invisible  wires, 
reaching  to  the  uttermost  Kingdoms  of  the  civilized  globe, 
and  emanating  from  the  Chancellory  in  the  Friedrich- 
strasse,  Berlin? 

The  Army  had  its  secret  agents,  an  army  of  them,  by 
Jingo!  Had  not  scraps  of  conversation  reached  the  ears 
of  P.  C.  Breagh  no  later  than  the  previous  day,  relative 
to  a  certain  dandy  Colonel  of  Prussian  Field  Artillery, 
who  for  the  past  two  years  had  filled  the  well-paid  post  of 
lace  and  ribbon  Department  Manager  at  the  Paris  Bon 
Marche. 

Then  why  on  earth.  .  .  .  But  at  this  juncture  the  Halt 
Inspector  returned  with  the  Commandant,  a  white-whis- 
kered, potty  officer,  in  blue  infantry  uniform  with  distinc- 
tive white  shoulder-straps,  beside  whom  stalked  a  tall, 
middle-aged  Colonel  of  Uhlans,  whose  pale  eyes,  unshaded 
by  the  tufted  schlapka,  glittered  through  steel-rimmed 
glasses,  whose  teeth  were  clenched  on  a  familiar  meer- 
schaum— and  whose  gaunt,  broad-shouldered  figure  looked 
better  in  the  dark  blue  cavalry  uniform  with  its  yellow  plas- 
tron and  white  cross-belt,  than  in  Herr  von  Rosius's  Ber- 
lin-made private  clothes. 

For  it  was  undoubtedly  Miss  Ling 's  quiet-mannered  first- 
floor  lodger,  who  had  resigned  his  post  of  teacher  at  the 
Berners  Street  Institute  of  Languages  when  the  wire  had 
come  from  Headquarters,  bidding  him  come  back  and 
be  a  cog-wheel  in  Moltke's  big  war-machine.  What  Mr. 
Knewbit  would  have  called  "the  blank  expression'' 
appeared  behind  his  spectacles  when  they  showed  him  his 


300  THE   MAN   OF    IRON 

young  fellow-lodger  from  Coram  Street.  But  he  paused 
when  the  Commandant  halted  and  began  to  ask  questions — 
which  Carolan  answered  in  the  German  so  frequently  tested 
on  Herr  von  Rosius. 

"How  came  you  to  travel  from  Berlin  in  a  train  set 
apart  for  the  use  of  the  Guard  Infantry?  Show  me  your 
Legitimations-Kart  and  military  ticket,  if  you  have  one! 
— You  have  neither?  .  .  .  Then  how  did  you,  against  the 
regulations,  obtain  permission  of  the  authorities  to  enter 
a  militdr-zug  ?  It  is  inconceivable  that  you  should  have 
managed  to  conceal  yourself  without  connivance  of  some 
kind!" 

Things  were  getting  close  to  the  Chancellory  half-sheet, 
but  it  would  never  be  displayed  with  the  consent  of  P.  C. 
Breagh.  He  had  wild  ideas  of  feigning  idiocy,  of  appeal- 
ing to  Von  Rosius,  but  the  first  resource  savored  of  the 
theater  too  strongly  for  adoption,  and  the  second — one 
glance  at  the  hard,  ignoring  eyes  behind  the  steel-rimmed 
glasses  disposed  of  that  for  good. 

At  his  wits'  end,  a  loud,  genial  voice  hailed  him  in  the 
English  language,  flavored  with  the  County  Dublin 
brogue. 

"By  the  powers!  and  there's  the  face  I'm  looking  for. 
Longer  by  a  yard  than  it  was  when  you  capped  me  at 
Berlin.  Faith !  and  I  stared  at  you  with  all  my  eyes,  won- 
dering where  in  the  world  I'd  last  beheld  ye?  Till  Chris 
Brotherton  quizzed  me  and  I  bet  him  five  shillings  the 
place  was  Fleet  Street.  Now,  on  your  honor,  was  it? 
Speak,  or  forever  after  hold  your  tongue!" 

"Not  quite  Fleet  Street,  sir,  but  hardly  a  stone's  throw 
from  it!"  A  great  wave  of  unreasonable  hope  lifted  the 
sinking  heart  of  P.  C.  Breagh. 

The  big,  warm  voice  and  the  kind,  bright  glance  that  had 
wrought  the  miracle,  belonged  to  a  stout  little  bearded 
gentleman  of  fifty,  topped  with  a  hard  gray  Derby,  and 
attired  in  a  pepper-and-salt  cutaway  coat,  brown  holland 
vest  and  neat  white  hunting-stock,  gray  Bedford  cords  and 
shiny  black  spurred  Blucher  boots.  Had  you  met  him 
cantering  on  some  plump  and  well-fed  cob  along  a  green 
lane  in  the  Mother  Country,  you  would  have  taken  him — 
but  for  the  revolver-pouch  that  depended  from  a  neat 
black  leather  belt,  and  the  wallet  that,  with  its  companion- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  301 

ing  field-glass,  was  slung  across  his  shoulders — for  a  hard- 
riding  country  surgeon  or  solicitor,  of  the  good  old  English 
kind.  But  P.  C.  Breagh  knew  better,  and  his  drab  world 
changed  to  rose-color,  as  the  big  voice  rolled  from  the 
capacious  chest: 

"Hardly  a  minute's  .  .  .  Hold  on!  For  the  life  of 
you,  don 't  refresh  my  memory !  What  would  it  be  to 
find  one's  mental  legs  getting  shaky  at  the  start  of  a  new 
campaign !  Not  a  stone 's  throw  from  Fleet  Street,  did  you 
say?  ...  By  the  Beadle  of  Old  Trinity!  if  you  don't 
mean  the  Maze  at  Hampton  Court  or  the  Nevski  Prospect 
at  Petersburg,  or  the  garden  of  the  Dilkusha  at  Lucknow, 
you're  talking  of  Printing  House  Square!  Am  I  right 
now?" 

"You've  hit  the  nail,  sir!  You  were  walking  arm-in- 
arm with  Mr.  Sala — and  I  'd  been  introduced  to  him  before, 
luckily!  and  he  remembered  my  name  and  presented  me 
to  you!" 

' '  And  I  'm  five  shillings  the  richer  by  the  meeting.  For 
if  Chris  Brotherton  dares  to  say  the  Thunderbolt  office 
and  Fleet  Street  are  anything  but  synonymous,  he's  a 
bolder  man  than  I  take  him  to  be.  But  I  'm  interrupting  a 
conversation.  .  .  . "  He  broke  off,  saluting  the  official. 
"Pray  accept  my  apologies,  Herr  Commandant,  I'll  wait 
while  you  finish  with  my  young  friend." 

The  Commandant  stiffly  returned  the  genial  salute  before 
he  wheeled  and  walked  off  with  the  Inspector  and  Von 
Rosius,  who,  while  the  king  of  British  War  Correspondents 
chatted  with  his  glowing  vassal,  had  exchanged  a  few  sen- 
tences with  these  personages  apart.  Then  said  the  kindly 
little  gentleman,  with  a  humorous  twirl  of  the  eye  at  the 
three : 

' '  I  claimed  your  acquaintance  because  I  saw  you  nearing 
the  jaws  of  a  German  guardroom.  Though  I  fancy  you'd 
a  friend  at  Court  in  that  Uhlan  Colonel  there!  ...  I 
heard  him  tell  the  Commandant  that  he'd  no  earthly  idea 
how  you  got  here,  but  you  were  simply  an  English  school- 
boy who  was  crazy  to  see  a  war.  And  the  Commandant 
said  something  about  turning  tail  at  the  first  whistle  of  a 
Bombensplitter — that's  a  shell-splinter.  Though  I'm 
pretty  certain  by  the  cut  of  your  jib  you'd  do  nothing  of 
the  kind!" 

He  added,  as  a  familiar  shout  of  "Entrain!"  and  a 


302  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

bugle-call  brought  the  platform  leg-stretchers  scampering 
to  their  places  and  the  long  train  of  gray-painted  wagons, 
officers'  horse-boxes  and  baggage  trucks,  clanked  into 
motion  again: 

"Your  friends  of  the  Guard  have  gone  without  you. 
Kreuznach  will  be  their  detraining-point — that's  all  I  can 
tell  you.  For  the  reason — and  it's  an  uncommonly  sound 
one! — that  the  newly  mobilized  men  of  the  infantry  bat- 
talions want  a  march  to  limber  their  joints  and  stretch 
their  new  boots  a  bit.  Begad !  my  own  brogues  would  be 
the  better  of  a  day  or  two  on  the  trees.  But  rheumatism 
and  corns  are  the  price  one  pays  for  experience — and  the 
privilege  of  talking  like  a  daddy  to  harum-scarum  gossoons 
like  yourself.  You've  no  business  to  be  here,  boyo!  but 
since  you  are — use  your  eyes  and  brains  to  observe  with — 
never  be  ashamed  of  running  away  when  you  can  get  out 
of  danger  by  doing  it !  and  for  your  mother 's  sake,  if  she 's 
living — don't  be  dragged  into  fighting  on  a  side.  Forget 
that  you  have  a  revolver,  if  that  bulge  under  your  jacket 
means  that  you  carry  one, — and  keep  your  temper  cool  and 
your  opinions  strictly  neutral,  if  a  fellow  with  a  drop  of 
Irish  blood  in  him  can!  Twit  me  with  Bull  Run,  now,  and 
you'll  get  the  historic  answer:  'Do  as  I  advise  you  to  do, 
not  what  I  do ! '  ' 

He  pulled  out  the  battered  gold  hunting-watch  at  the 
end  of  its  short,  strong  leather  guard,  and  glanced  atMt, 
saying  with  a  sigh  of  relief: 

"Seven  o'clock.  Breakfast  ought  to  be  ready  at  the 
Victoria — barrack  of  a  hostelry,  packed  with  cocky  Prussian 
officers.  Suppose  you  come  back  there  with  me  and  have 
a  bite  and  sup?" 

Dazzling  prospect!  to  a  young  man  given  to  hero-wor- 
ship, which  the  historian  of  "Cromwell"  had  positively 
asserted  to  be  good  for  youthful  bodies  and  souls.  P.  C. 
Breagh  would  have  given  a  great  deal  if  Valverden  could 
have  heard  the  invitation.  .  .  .  However,  it  was  more  likely 
than  not  that  he  had  beheld  the  object  of  his  scorn  in 
familiar  conversation  with  the  most  famous  of  British  War 
Correspondents,  as  the  gray-painted  troop-train  carried  him 
away. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  303 


XXXIV 

THAT  was  an  enchanted  walk  for  P.  C.  Breagh,  back  to 
the  big,  bare,  barrack-like  Victoria.  It  was  the  Doctor's 
generous  amends  for  an, unintentional  slight.  Two  days 
previously,  at  the  Potsdam  Eailway  Station,  Berlin,  when  a 
companion  had  said  to  him :  ' '  Who 's  the  enthusiastic  young 
admirer  who  kowtowed  to  you  ?  English,  I  should  say,  and 
you  cut  him  unmercifully," — he  had  answered,  out  of  the 
whirl  of  great  affairs: 

' '  I  've  no  notion ;  but  I  '11  make  amends  if  ever  he  crosses 
my  path  again.  It 's  not  my  way  to  hurt  a  boy. ' ' 

' '  Bet  you  five  bob  he  hails  from  Fleet  Street, ' '  the  friend 
had  cried;  and  the  Doctor  had  answered: 

' '  If  so,  he  has  a  claim  on  me  I  'm  not  going  to  deny. ' ' 

Dust  underfoot  made  the  tread  fall  as  on  velvet.  Dust 
in  the  air  parched  the  throat  and  got  in  the  eyes.  And  the 
incessant  rolling  of  the  Prussian  side-drums,  lanced 
through  with  signal  whistles  and  sharp  bugle-calls,  made 
the  hot  baked  atmosphere  quiver,  and  the  play  of  early 
sunshine  on  myriads  of  brass  helmet-spikes  made  the  eyes 
water  and  blink,  as  the  battalions  of  blue  infantry  that 
had  marched  into  Bingen  on  the  previous  day  mustered 
from  their  billets,  were  entrained  and  conjured  away ;  and 
other  battalions  that  had  marched  fifteen  miles  since  cock- 
crow tramped  in  with  the  thick  white  dust  turned  to  mud 
upon  them  by  the  heavy  Rhineland  dews  that  had  soaked 
their  boots  and  damped  their  uniforms,  halted  but  to 
breakfast — and  were  off,  almost  on  the  heels  of  the  first. 

Division  after  Division  of  Cavalry — Uhlans  in  light  or 
dark  blue  piped  with  red,  and  shiny  black  Lancer  scliap- 
kas,  Cuirassiers  in  white  uniforms,  with  steel  breast  and 
back  plates,  and  steel  helmets  simple  in  design  as  those  of 
Cromwell's  Ironsides;  light  blue  Dragoons,  Hussars  with, 
tufted  shakos  of  miniver,  and  braided  jackets  of  red,  black, 
green,  brown  and  pale  blue,  with  their  flying  batteries  of 
Horse  Artillery,  their  proviant  columns  and  ammunition- 
trains,  had  been  rushed  to  the  frontier  with  astounding 
speed.  Now  the  blue  deluge  of  marching  men  with  needle- 
guns  came  rolling  after.  With  thunder  of  heavy  siege- 
trains,  with  patches  of  green  upon  the  monotonous  blue, 
that  stood  for  picked  battalions  of  sharpshooters;  sons  of 


804  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

gamekeepers  and  forest-rangers;  bred  from  childhood  to 
woodcraft  and  hunter 's  lore ;  experts  in  the  use  of  the  rifle, 
scouts  and  trackers  of  daring  and  skill. 

On  the  seventeenth  of  July  the  Warlock  had  said  to  his 
King,  "Give  me  to  the  third  of  August  and  we  are  safe." 
This  was  the  third  of  August.  And  the  air  was  thick  with 
something  besides  dust. 

Conscious  of  this,  they  talked,  the  neophyte  and  the 
adept  discussing  things  that  had  happened  during  the 
pregnant  interval.  How  Forbes  of  the  Da/ily  News,  who 
tramped  it  up  to  Saarbriick  by  the  Nahe  Valley  Road  from 
Kreuznach,  had  seen  the  first  blood  flow,  when  a  couple  of 
infantrymen  of  the  garrison  were  brought  in  in  a  chipped 
condition,  having  been  sniped  at  by  red-breeched  French 
marksmen  across  the  frontier-line. 

With  a  single  battalion  of  the  Hohenzollerns,  the  7th 
Regiment  of  Rhineland  Uhlans  had  hitherto  constituted 
Saarbriick 's  garrison.  And  the  French  being  reported  in 
force  at  Forbach,  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  thousand  men 
being  said  to  be  strung  out  along  the  frontier,  a  detach- 
ment of  Uhlans  with  spare  troop-horses  had  ridden  into 
Neunkirchen  on  the  morning  of  the  twenty-fourth  of  July, 
and  borrowed  from  the  collieries  a  dozen  stout  miners, 
armed  with  picks,  and  supplied  with  blasting  cartridges, 
fuses,  and  so  on.  These  grimy  stalwarts  they  tied  on 
troop-horses ;  crossed  the  frontier,  and  blew  up  the  viaduct 
on  the  railway-line  branching  from  the  Forbach-Metz  rail- 
way near  Cocheren  and  connecting  Metz  with  Saargue- 
mines,  Bitche,  Hagenau  and  Strasbourg. 

Thenceafter,  nothing  of  note  happened  until  the  twenty- 
eighth  of  July,  when  the  Emperor  Napoleon  III.  entered 
Metz  with  his  Staff  and  the  hjeir  to  the  Throne  Imperial, 
and  formally  took  command  of  the  seven  corps  d'armee 
known  as  the  ' '  Army  of  the  Rhine. ' '  Upon  the  same  day, 
a  party  of  the  Hohenzollerns,  commanded  by  an  N.C.O., 
reconnoitering  on  the  right  front,  flushed  a  French  vidette, 
in  a  wood  covering  a  knoll  of  rising  ground,  over  the  top 
of  which  went  the  imaginary  frontier-line. 

Being  shot  at,  the  Hohenzollerns  retired  to  garrison. 
But  about  regimental  soup-time,  twelve  or  thereabouts,  a 
battery  of  six  French  field-pieces  came  over  the  slope  of 
the  Spicherenberg  heights,  getting  into  position  on  a 
plateau  half-way  down. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  305 

'And  while  the  Prussian  drummers  beat  to  arms;  while 
the  Hohenzollerns  hastily  posted  their  four  companies,  one 
on  each  of  the  town's  three  bridges,  and  sent  one  forward 
on  the  heels  of  a  squadron  of  Uhlans,  up  the  Forbach  Eoad, 
which  runs  through  Saarbriick,  rising  as  it  trends  to  the 
west ; — while  the  rest  of  the  Uhlans  stood  to  their  horses  in 
the  Markt-platz,  and  the  civilian  population  stopped  to 
look  on,  or  scuttled  for  cover,  six  shells  were  fired,  three  of 
them  hitting  a  little  beerhouse  on  the  hill-brow,  just  off 
the  Forbach  Road — and  the  Imperial  cannonade  was  over, 
the  artillerists  retired,  and  nothing  more  had  happened, — 
though  the  videttes  and  patrols,  Gallic  and  Teuton,  had 
cracked  away  at  each  other  from  high  noon  till  batlight. 

Discussing  these  things,  the  adept  and  the  neophyte  came 
to  the  Victoria,  every  window  of  which  was  crowded  with. 
Prussian  officers,  eating,  drinking  and  smoking,  or  shouting 
for  breakfast,  coffee,  beer,  wine  and  tobacco  in  every  key 
of  the  human  register. 

Distracted  waiters  ran  about  like  ants,  and  before  the 
packed  and  roaring  caravanserai — keeping  guard  over  one 
of  the  little  decrepit  iron  tables  that  stood  under  the  dusty 
acacias — a  little  table  that  had  a  fly-spotted  cloth  upon  it, 
and  a  great  glass  basin  filled  with  sugar  cubes,  and  was 
further  adorned  with  brown  rings  made  by  the  bottoms  of 
coffee-cups  and  beer-glasses,  were  the  two  friends  referred 
to  by  P.  C.  Breagh's  Good  Samaritan. 

One  was  a  handsome,  fair-haired,  smiling  man  in  the 
scarlet,  yellow-faced,  gold-adorned  uniform  of  a  crack 
regiment  of  British  Light  Dragoons,  "a  swell  of  the  haw- 
haw  type ' '  Mr.  Ticking  would  have  termed  him.  With  this 
splendid  personage,  who  was  generally  referred  to  as 
"Major  Brotherton,"  was  a  shorter,  plainer  individual 
with  fluffy  whiskers,  attired  as  for  the  sports  of  the  field, 
in  a  white,  low-crowned  felt,  large  checked  tweeds,  in  which, 
orange  and  pink  predominated,  drab  leggings  and  heavily 
nailed  highlows.  A  Dolland  field-glass  was  slung  from  his 
shoulders,  and  over  a  neighboring  chair  lay  a  huge  box- 
coat,  the  multitudinous  pockets  of  which  appeared  to  con- 
tain his  luggage,  for  a  bath-sponge  in  a  rubber  bag  rolled 
out  of  one  as  he  rose  up  to  welcome  the  leader  of  the 
party,  and  a  box  of  areca-nut  tooth-paste,  and  a  hairbrush 
with  a  patent  collapsible  handle  had  to  be  shifted  before 


306  ,THE   MAN   OF,  IRON 

the  sponge  could  be  replaced;  just  as  though  Mr.  Toole 
had  thought  out  the  costume  and  the  comic  business  for 
some  traveling  Briton  in  a  new  farce. 

You  may  suppose  P.  C.  Breagh  blushing  from  con- 
sciousness of  the  contrast  of  his  own  travel-stained  grimi- 
ness  with  the  Major's  dazzling  brilliancy,  when  that  per- 
sonage shook  hands  with  him  and  said  it  was  going  to  be 
a  hot  day.  Introduced  by  his  kindly  patron  to  the  sports- 
man in  pink  and  orange  tweeds  with: 

' '  Tower,  this  is  a  young  countryman  of  mine — picked  up 
at  the  station — just  tumbled  out  of  a  troop- wagon  full  of 
Guards  Infantry " 

The  fluffy  whiskered  sportsman  civilly  nodded  and  ob- 
served: "And  dashed  good  luck  for  him!"  He  added: 
* '  Doctor,  if  you  recognized  your  baggage- van  by  that  con- 
founded goat  you've  had  painted  on  it,  I'll  admit  it's 
served  some  purpose  besides  frightening  German  crows!" 

"Begad!  it  frightened  me  when  I  saw  it  on  the  siding 
this  morning ! ' '  avowed  the  genial  Doctor.  ' '  But  how  was 
I  to  know  that  the  Berlin  painter  who  undertook  to  copy 
the  crest  from  my  family  coat-of-arms  had  got  a  magnify- 
ing eye?" 

Said  the  man  in  cavalry  uniform,  smoothing  his  drooping 
mustache,  and  speaking  with  the  drawl  of  Robertsonian 
comedy : 

"At  any  rate,  the  size  of  the  animal  testifies  to  the 
antiquity  of  your  race,  and  so  on.  For  in  prehistoric  days, 
I  take  it,  goats  were  as  big  as  cows  are  now!" 

"My  thanks  to  you,  Brotherton,  for  supplying  so  plausi- 
ble an  explanation.  I'll  salve  my  pride  of  pedigree  with 
it  next  time  I'm  taken  for  a  traveling  quack,  and  Prus- 
sian soldiers  suffering  with  indigestion  apply  to  me  for 
pills  and  black-dose. ' '  He  added,  with  his  pleasant  laugh, 
catching  P.  C.  Breagh 's  glance  of  incredulity:  "Actual 
fact,  and  no  embroidery,  I  assure  you!  You  understand 
that  to  emphasize  the  strictly  pacific  nature  of  my  calling, 
I  'm  exploiting  my  honorary  degree  for  all  it 's  worth ! ' ' 
He  added,  rather  pointedly  addressing  the  handsome  cav- 
alryman, "I've  no  special  ambition  to  be  shot  as  a  com- 
batant!" 

"Nor  have  I,"  said  the  man  in  sporting  checks,  warmly. 
"And,  Brotherton,  my  dear  fellow,  if  this  'ere  'umble 
individual  may  add  his  advice  to  the  counsel  you've  al- 


THE   MAN   OF,   IRON  307 

ready  had  from  the  man,  by  Jove!  who  of  all  men  knows 
best  what  he's  talkin'  about,  you'll  stow  that  'ere  lady- 
killing  uniform,  and  the  silver  helmet  with  the  flowin' 
plume  away  in  some  spare  portmanteau,  and  leave  'em  with 
your  saber  and  the  dazzlin'  horse-furniture  you  showed 
me  this  morning  in  charge  of  the  landlord  here,  until  you 
come  back  from  the  war-path  safe  and  sound.  Am  I  talk- 
ing 'oss  sense,  Doctor?" 

"Indeed  you  are,  Tower!"  agreed  the  Doctor.  "And, 
Chris,  if  you'll  listen  to  him,  I'll  be  eternally  grateful  to 
you,  for  your  own  sake.  You've  too  much  of  what  Tower 
and  the  Yankees  call  'horse  sense'  not  to  know  you're 
handicapped  as  a  war  correspondent  by  your  glorious 
panoply ! ' ' 

The  Major  smiled,  and  said,  smoothing  the  drooping 
mustache  with  a  fine  white  hand  that  wore  a  diamond-set 
signet : 

''You  can't  blame  me  for  thirsting  to  carry  the  harness 
I  've  worn  in  sham  fights  for  nearly  half  my  lifetime,  where 
bullets  are  flying  in  real  earnest?" 

' '  Not  a  bit,  dear  fellow, ' '  said  the  Doctor,  with  a  twinkle, 
"so  long  as  you  thirst  to  do  it  and  don't!  That  letter  'R' 
on  your  shoulder-cord  is  hardly  big  enough  to  serve  as 
cover  where  those  bullets  are  plentiful.  And  with  your 
influence,  prospects  in  life,  and  position,  you'd  be  an  in- 
grate  to  Fate  if  you  were  anxious  to  die  at  thirty-four. ' ' 

Said  Brotherton,  knitting  his  fair  eyebrows  over  the 
restless  fire  in  his  handsome  eyes: 

"Influence  has  been  my  bane,  and  the  two  other  things 
have  stood  in  my  light  ever  since  I  was  an  urchin  in  knick- 
erbockers. I've  been  Queen's  page,  and  Prince's  Equerry, 
and  aide-de-camp  on  the  Duke's  Staff,  and  I've  never  seen 
an  army  in  the  field,  or  smelt  powder,  except  at  Aldershot, 
or  Shorncliffe,  or  the  Curragh  of  Kildare,  or  at  carbine- 
practice.  What  luck  do  you  call  that?" 

' '  Dashed  hard ! ' '  said  Tower. 

Brotherton  went  on: 

"I  was  a  callow  cadet  at  Sandhurst  when  the  Regiment 
covered  itself  with  glory  at  Balaclava,  and  as  it  has  seen 
no  active  service  since — I've  had  no  chance  to  find  out 
whether  I  'm  a  real  soldier,  or  a  kid-glove  one. ' ' 

"Why  not  have  exchanged "  began  Tower.  The 

Major  shook  his  head. 


308  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

"It  wasn't  to  be  done,  for  a  very  solid  reason.  My 
father,  who  served  with  Redlett's  Brigade  in  the  Crimea, 
was  killed  on  Balaclava  Day ;  and  I  was  an  only  son.  And 
my  mother  was  a  confidential  Lady-in- Waiting,  and  knew 
where  to  apply,  by  Jove !  when  my  youthful  ambition  was 
to  be  cold- watered.  ...  And  now  that  the  dear  soul  has 
gone,  and  I'm  on  the  Retired  list — after  fifteen  years  of 
Windsor,  Buckingham  Palace,  Whitehall,  Pall  Mall  and 
Hyde  Park — out  breaks  the  war  that  I  've  been  sighing  for. 
And,  after  hovering  about  the  Thunderbolt  office  till 
every  printer's  devil  knows  me  by  name,  and  cooling  my 
heels  on  the  doorstep  of  your  chambers  in  the  Albion  so  per- 
sistently that  your  housekeeper  believed  me  a  bailiff  with  a 
writ — I  managed  to  knock  over  Opportunity  on  the  wing — 
and  secured,  thanks  to  you,  Doctor!  the  chance  of  my 
life!" 

He  stood  up,  a  handsome,  martial  figure  in  his  scarlet 
and  golden  uniform,  his  eyes  ablaze  under  the  silver,  gold- 
starred,  white-plumed  helmet,  his  fine  face  flushed  with  the 
battle-lust.  And  as  he  stretched  out  his  hand  across  the 
spotty  tablecloth,  the  feasting  flies  rose  in  a  buzzing 
cloud. 

"And  glad  am  I  if  word  of  mine  helped  to  get  that 
chance  for  you,  and  you  know  it,  Chris,  and  that  it's  a 
pleasure  to  have  you  with  me, ' '  said  the  genial  voice,  as  the 
Doctor  took  the  offered  hand.  ' '  But  the  military  array,  my 
dear  fellow!  The  wampum  and  war-paint — that's  what  I 
kick  at,  with  my  gouty  toe  of  fifty- two. ' '  He  added :  ' '  But 
here  comes  the  waiter  with  the  coffee  and  eggs,  and  bread 
and  butter,  and  something  like  the  cold  sliced  ham  I'm 
dying  for — if  only  it  doesn  't  happen  to  be  raw !  So  sit 
down  and  we'll  fortify  ourselves  against  possible  short- 
commons  at  Mayence.  For  that's  where  the  King  is,  with. 
Moltke  and  the  Great  Headquarters.  And  that's  the  des- 
tination we  take  rail  for  at  twelve  noon." 

He  added,  as  Brotherton  and  Tower  started  in  their 
chairs,  and  P.  C.  Breagh  quivered  like  a  fox-terrier  shown 
a  rat:  "As  for  the  other  chiefs,  the  Red  Prince  is — no 
one  seems  able  to  tell  where — and  the  Crown  Prince  is  on 
the  frontier.  Maybe  we'll  hear  of  him  at  Wissembourg 
by-and-by ! ' ' 

"We  should  be  there  ourselves,  in  the  thick  of  it,"  as- 
serted Brotherton,  savagely  slashing  at  a  pallid  pat  of 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  309 

butter,  as  Tower  poured  boiling  milk  and  coffee  into  cups 
half-an-inch  thick. 

"We  would  be,  Chris,  me  dear  man!"  said  the  Doctor, 
liberally  piling  slices  of  cold  veal  and  ham-sausage  on  his 
guests'  plates,  cutting  bread  and  passing  the  pickles,  "if 
the  authorities  panted  to  have  English  correspondents  at 
their  elbows  while  they're  posting  their  pawns  and  pieces 
for  the  opening  game!" 

Brotherton  retorted  with  a  touch  of  pomposity : 

"You  take  it  lightly,  sir.  But  for  the  honor  of  our 
profession,  we  should  extort  recognition  at  the  hands  of 
these  foreigners.  We  should,  as  representatives  of  a  great 
Power,  submit  to  no  belittling.  Wielding  as  we  do — 

"Keep  all  that  toffee  for  the  speechmaking  end  of  a 
Newspaper  Press  dinner,  Chris,  my  boy,"  drolled  the  Doc- 
tor. ' '  Sure,  'tis  we  ourselves  are  the  foreigners  here — hard 
as  it  is  of  conception  to  a  true-born  Briton.  And — since 
we're  permitted  on  sufferance  to  accompany  the  forces 
of  United  Germany — the  least  we  can  do  is  to  extract  the 
necessary  information  painlessly!" 

"But,  my  God!  when  I  think  of  what  may  be  doing  at 
this  moment!"  broke  out  Brotherton,  hitting  the  table, 
"I  feel  as  if  I  should  go  stark,  staring  crazy!  Have  I 
sacrificed  what  I  have  sacrificed — and — and  borne  what  I 
have  borne,  to  trot  like  a  stray  tyke  at  the  tail  of  a  moving 
Army — picking  up  such  scraps  as  may  be  thrown  me  from 
day  to  day?  I  tell  you,  sir,  the  mere  idea  is  horrible  to 
me !  I  cannot  put  it  more  mildly.  My  blood  is  not  yet 
chilled  by  age,  or  my  susceptibilities  blunted.  ..."  He 
pushed  away  his  plate  and  rose,  pulling  his  gloves  from  his 
belt,  and  taking  up  the  cloak  that  had  been  thrown  over  a 
neighboring  chair.  ' '  I  will  ask  you  to  excuse  me !  I  have 
not  yet  received  my  papers  back  from  the  Halt  Comman- 
dant. I  will  call  upon  him  now ! ' ' 

"Come  with  you,  if  you've  no  objection  to  walking  in 
civilian  company?"  said  Tower,  swallowing  a  mouthful, 
emptying  his  coffee-cup,  and  reaching  for  the  white  felt 
hat  and  the  box-coat. 

"Come  back  about  ten — I  may  have  a  scrap  or  two  of 
news  worth  hearing,"  said  the  Doctor,  with  imperturbable 
good  temper ;  and  with  a  horsey  touch  of  the  hat  on  Tower 's 
part,  and  a  sulkily  dignified  salute  from  the  Major,  the  tall 
soldierly  figure  in  its  scarlet  and  blue  and  gold,  and  the  less 


310  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

dignified  personality  in  the  clothes  that  might  have  been 
worn  by  Toole  in  the  part  of  a  horsey  squire,  went  away 
together,  over  the  yellow-burnt  grass  and  the  dusty  sun- 
baked gravel,  dotted  with  little  breakfasting  groups  of  of- 
ficers, who  had  been  crowded  out  of  the  Hotel. 

"I'm  glad  Tower's  gone  with  him.  He's  in  a  frame  of 
mind  that  won 't  make  for  pleasant  relations  with  Prussian 
transport-officers,"  quoth  the  Doctor,  looking  after  the 
retreating  couple  with  something  like  a  twinkle  and  some- 
thing like  a  sigh.  ' '  But  he 's  a  grand  fellow ! — a  splendid 
fellow  is  Brotherton ! — even  if  he  sometimes  reminds  me  of 
the  Quaker  wife  who  said  to  her  husband :  '  Friend  Timo- 
thy, all  the  world  is  wrong  except  thee  and  me,  and  thou 
is  a  little  wrong  sometimes,  Friend  Timothy ! '  ' 

And  having  got  rid  of  his  vexation  in  one  gentle  gibe  at 
the  idiosyncrasy  of  the  petulant  Brotherton,  he  fell  to  his 
breakfast  again,  urging  his  guest  to  a  renewed  attack  on 
the  strong  ham-sausage  and  weak  coffee,  with  the  words: 

"Bad  policy — neglecting  rations.  Must  stoke  when  fuel 
for  the  human  engine  is  to  be  had,  if  you  're  going  to  chron- 
icle the  deeds  of  an  army  that  fights  as  it  marches.  And 
when  you've  cleaned  your  plate,  and  drunk  another  cup  of 
coffee,  you  shall  tell  me  why  you  came  here  and  what  you 
want  to  do." 

He  commented,  when  P.  C.  Breagh,  duly  replete,  had 
stated  the  nature  of  his  aims  and  ambitions ;  touching  upon 
his  discouragements  as  briefly  as  might  be : 

"War  Correspondence!  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  admit  I  guessed 
that  you'd  set  your  heart  on  something  of  the  kind,  when 
I  saw  you  tumble  out  of  that  troop- wagon  with  a  note 
book  sticking  out  of  your  jacket-pocket.  And  so  old  Knew- 
bit  financed  ?  Sporting  of  him ! — and  he  deserves  that  his 
letters  should  be  worth  reading.  Call  'em  'Experiences  of 
a  Tyke  at  the  Tail  of  an  Army.'  '  He  added,  his  bright 
brown  eyes  twinkling  through  their  gold-rimmed  glasses. 
"For  that's  where  you've  got  to  be!" 

lie  lighted  a  huge  cigar,  twisted  round  his  green-painted 
iron  chair  and  sat  astride  upon  it,  resting  on  its  rickety 
back  his  folded  arms,  short  and  strong,  with  small  muscu- 
lar hands,  sunburned  like  his  bearded  face  and  thick  bull- 
neck. 

"I  am  not  joking,  my  young  acquaintance.  Can't  you 
understand  that  to  keep  abreast  with  even  a  secondary 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  311 

Staff  in  the  war-field  you  have  to  sweat  out  money  at 
every  pore?  And — without  gold  for  transport  or  thalers 
for  trinkgelt — or  seasoned  knowledge  to  help  you  even  if 
your  pockets  were  full,  what  can  you  accomplish?  I  tell 
you  frankly — nothing  at  all!  But  if  you'll  follow  on  the 
fringe  of  a  Division,  marching  with  the  hangers-on  and 
officers'  servants — you'll  get  many  a  scrap  of  useful  news 
and  many  a  meaty  bone  of  valuable  information  tossed 
to  you  day  by  day.  And  even  with  the  rear  of  the  Army 
Corps  you  elect  to  stick  to,  you'll  sup  your  fill  of  raw-head 
and  bloody  bones — take  the  assurance  from  me.  Will  you 
— with  the  advice?" 

The  great  man  was  so  unassuming  in  his  kindness  that 
the  little  one  hardly  grasped  the  full  extent  of  it,  even  as 
he  said,  blinking  as  though  a  cinder  of  the  Lower  Rhine- 
land  Eailroad  had  got  into  his  eye: 

"Yes,  sir,  and  thank  you!  I  shall  never  forget  how 
good  you've  been  to  me!"  and  got  reply: 

"You've  no  business  to  be  here,  boyo,  but  since  you 
are,  more  by  luck  than  grace,  use  your  eyes  and  stuff  your 
memory  with  things  worth  keeping.  Now  as  my  time  is 
precious, — is  there  anything  more  you  want  to  know?" 

"Only  one  thing.  ...  I  have  been  puzzled  by  an — 
an  incident  that  happened  to  a — fellow  in  my  own  posi- 
tion."  P.  C.  Breagh  boggled  horribly:  "Was  regularly 
set  on  getting  to  the  Front — hadn't  a  notion  how  to  set 
about  it — when  he — accidentally — managed  to  get  hold  of 
a — kind  of  official  authorization.  An  informal  pass,  cer- 
tifying the  bearer  as  trustworthy — written  and  signed  by 
Count  Bismarck  himself.  ..." 

"And  that  wasn't  half  bad,"  the  Doctor  said,  knocking 
the  ash  off  the  huge  cigar,  "for  a  beginner  pretty  well,  it 
seems  to  me ! ' ' 

Said  P.  C.  Breagh: 

"He  was  tremendously  elated  at  having  got  the  paper. 
It  seemed  to  smooth  away  every  difficulty.  But  later, 
when  he  found  himself  in  touch  with  Prussian  Army  men — 
they, — not  only  the  gentlemen  privates  qualifying  for  com- 
missions, but  the  common  rankers, — dropped  him  like  a 
hot  potato  once  they  knew!  And — I'd  like  to  know  the 
reason  why  they  cut  me — I  mean  him? — because  they 
supposed  him  to  belong  to  the  Secret  Intelligence  Depart- 
ment? 'A.  spy  is — a  spy!  Excuse  me  from  further  con- 


312  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

versation!'  '  His  mouth  twisted  wryly,  repeating  the 
hateful  words. 

"I — understand."  The  Doctor  stroked  his  beard.  "And 
previously  this  young  Englishman  and  the  rank-and-file 
of  the  Guard  Infantry" — P.  C.  Breagh  kept  as  straight  an 
upper-lip  as  was  possible — "had  chatted  together  upon 
friendly  terms?" 

"That  was  it.  He  had  got  on  splendidly  with  them — 
one  fellow  especially.  And — it  hurt,  being  suddenly  sent 
to  Coventry !  .  .  . " 

"And  does  it  strike  you" — there  was  infinite  sagacity 
in  the  clear  brown  eyes  behind  the  gold-rimmed  glasses, 
"that  if  you  had  been  chatting  freely  with  a  supposed 
equal,  about  your  own  position,  prospects,  and  opinions, 
you  would  have  'dropped  him  like  a  hot  potato'  if  you 
had  suspected  him  of  being  commissioned  to  sound  you  for 
French  sympathies,  predilections,  and  so  forth — on  the 
eve  of  hostilities  with  Prance  ? ' ' 

A  light  broke  in  upon  the  darkness  in  which  Carolan  had 
groped.  His  eyes  became  circular,  and  his  mouth  shaped 
for  a  whistle.  He  exploded : 

"Oh,  hang  it!  I  never  thought  of  anything  so — so 
beastly.  ...  I  wondered  why  Valverden  shied,  supposing 
me  a  Secret  Information  agent,  when  the  Army  has  shoals 
of  'em.  .  .  .  But  that  Government  should  set  such  fellows 
sniffing  at  the  heels  of  the  Army — of  course  I  never  thought 
of  that.  It's  not — cricket,  is  it,  sir?" 

The  Doctor's  hearty  laugh  pulled  round  the  heads  of  a 
breakfasting  party  of  officers  not  far  off.  He  said,  low- 
ering his  voice: 

"You  remember  the  nigger's  definitions  of  verse  and 
prose,  don't  you?  'Go  up  mill-dam,  fall  down  slam!  dat 
verse.  Go  up  mill-dam,  fall  down  whoppo,  dat  "blank, 
verse.'  Prussian  military  authority  may  hold,  that  between 
spying  on  the  enemy  before  the  Army  and  spying  on  the 
Army  before  the  enemy,  there  is  as  little  distinction. 
Though  they'd  think  differently  at  the  Horse  Guards,  thank 
the  Lord!  By  the  way,  with  regard  to  that  gaunt,  long- 
legged  Lieutenant- Colonel  of  Uhlans  of  the  Landwehr  who 
claimed  to  know  something  of  you,  rather  luckily  for  your 
ambitions! — where  did  you  come  across  him?  'An  English 
schoolboy,'  he  called  you,  'crazy  to  see  War!'  ' 

P.  C.  Breagh  explained : 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  313 

* '  He  did  know  something  of  me,  sir ! — though  it  was  the 
merest  chance — our  meeting.  Until  a  week  ago  he  was 
a  teacher  of  English  at  the  Berners  Street  Institute  of 
Languages,  and  lodged  at  my  landlady's.  And  they  re- 
called him  to  Berlin  a  few  hours  before  the  Declaration 
of  War." 


XXXV 

IT  WAS  the  Doctor's  turn  to  whistle. 

"Phew'!  So  that's  how  they  spy  out  and  trap  deserters 
from  their  Reserve  and  Landwehr.  Clever — uncommonly ! 
Possibly  it's  not  business  to  tell  you,  but  you've  given  away 
a  genuine  bit  of  information.  And  as  a  lesson  in  caution 
for  the  future,  I  shall  annex  your  nugget — do  you  hear? 
In  return — I've  a  pass  for  an  extra  groom  who  has  shot 
the  moon  with  three  weeks'  double  pay  in  advance,  the 
cowardly  beggar!  And — supposing  you're  not  too  proud 
— I  '11  take  you  with  me  as  far  as  Mayence. ' ' 

' '  I  don 't  know  how  to  thank  you,  sir ! " 

" Leave  thanking  for  the  present."  He  pulled  out  the 
gold  chronometer,  secured  by  its  twisted  thong.  "Ten 
o'clock,  and  here  come  Towers  and  Brotherton,  like  Rosen- 
crantz  and  Guildenstern,  'with  a  kind  of  confession  in 
their  looks  which  their  modesties  have  not  craft  enough  to 
color.'  No  news  to  be  had?  No  starting  for  Mayence 
before  twelve  sharp,  in  spite  of  honied  entreaties  lavished 
on  the  authorities?" 

"Deuce  a  scrap!" 

"Devil  a  minute!" 

They  threw  themselves  upon  chairs,  hot,  dusty  and  pant- 
ing. They  had  got  their  papers  back,  countersigned,  from 
a  kind  of  understrapper,  after,  to  do  him  justice,  very 
little  delay.  But  of  intelligence,  not  a  modicum  was  obtain- 
able, except  that  the  Emperor  was  said  to  be  close  to  the 
frontier  near  Saarbriick  at  the  head  of  the  Imperial 
Guards. 

' '  Though  they  've  been  saying  that  for  forty-eight  hours, ' ' 
grumbled  Tower,  "and  I'm  dam'  if  I  call  it  anything  but 
Ancient  History. ' ' 

At  which  candid  confession  the  Doctor 's  mouth  twitched 
under  the  thick,  curling  mustache  of  rusty  iron-gray.  He 


314  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

said,  his  quick  eye  noting  an  excited  stir  and  bustle  about 
the  thronged  entrance  of  the  hotel,  and  the  crowding  of 
officers  about  another,  who  had  a  paper  in  his  hand : 

"Those  officers  have  heard — something  that  is  not  An- 
cient History.  And  look  at  the  fellows  who  were  eating 
at  the  tables  in  the  windows;  they've  something  tastier  to 
discuss  now  than  the  landlord 's  indifferent  grub ! ' ' 

It  was  true.  In  the  long  dining-room,  in  the  restaurant, 
and  in  the  reading-room,  which  had  been  converted  into  a 
temporary  coffee-room,  men  were  swarming  like  bees  and 
buzzing  like  them,  while  detached,  staccato  sentences 
shaped  out  of  the  buzz. 

"Saarbriick  .  .  .  Spieheren  .  .  .  Frossard  .  .  .  Colonel 
von  Pestel.  ..." 

"Something  up.  ..."  Towers  adjusted  his  eyeglass. 
Brotherton.  catching  a  sentence  shouted  by  an  officer  of  a 
j'dger  battalion  to  another  green-coat  leaning  from  a  win- 
dow on  the  second-floor,  jumped  as  though  he  had  been 
prodded  with  a  bayonet,  and  turned  a  flaming  face  upon 
his  friend: 

"A  telegram  has  come  in.  .  .  There  has  been  serious 
fighting  at  Saarbriick.  Did  they  lie  to  us  at  the  station, 
then?  Officers  and  gentlemen " 

"Softly,  Chris!"  The  Doctor's  hand  upon  his  arm 
checked  him  on  the  verge  of  a  fiery  outburst.  "I  fancy 
they've  a  right  to  hold  back  intelligence  dispatched  from. 
Headquarters  when  the  senders  mark  the  wire  ' Delay.'  ' 

"No  doubt,  but  I  had  better  interview  the  Commandant. 
Details  would  be  worth  having ! ' '  said  Brotherton,  adding 
with  a  peculiar  smile,  "  Or  at  least  I,  in  my  inexperience,  am 
inclined  to  think  so." 

Came  the  quick  answer : 

' '  You  can  have  details  now — without  troubling  the  Com- 
mandant! Full — well,  as  fully  as  I  got  them — under  a 
strict  undertaking  of  secrecy  for  four  hours — at  six  o  'clock 
this  morning!" 

Brotherton  turned  as  ashen-pale  as  he  had  hitherto  been 
crimson.  Towers  called  out  gleefully,  as  active  little  thrills 
of  excitement  coursed  down  P.  C.  Breagh  's  spine : 

"Bravo,  Doctor!  And  you  had  it  up  youi  sleeve  all 
the  time.  '  Unfold,  thou  man  of  'orrid  mystery ! '  as  Miss 
Le  Grange  says  at  Astley's  in  the  Specter's  Bride." 

"There's  not  so  much  to  unfold.    But  from  eight  thou- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  315 

sand  to  ten  thousand  French  troops  made  an  attack  on 
Saarbriick  yesterday.  Some  battalions  of  the  8th  Prussian 
Army  Corps  had  augmented  the  original  garrison,  and  their 
nearest  support  was  at  Lebach,  five  miles  to  the  rear.  A 
mitrailleuse-battery  and  some  field-guns  posted  on  the 
Reppertsberg  drove  the  Blue  Uniforms  out  of  the  town!" 

Towers  said :  ' '  Then  why  the  deuce  ..."  and  broke  off. 
Brotherton  gloomed  heavily.  The  Doctor  went  on: 

"The  Emperor  and  the  Prince  Imperial  were  on  the 
heights,  with  the  Imperial  Staff,  to  see  the  show — an  aston- 
ishing spectacle  it  must  have  been.  Frossard,  in  the  center 
with  supports  drawn  from  the  Second  Corps — Marshal 
Bazaine  on  the  right,  with  troops  picked  from  the  Third. 
And  in  command  of  the  Fifth  Corps,  De  Failly,  who 
crossed  the  river  at  Saarguemines. " 

Queried  Tower: 

"And  when  the  big  bow-wow  had  made  the  little  one 
drop  the  bone,  he  didn't  stick  to  it?" 

The  Doctor  returned : 

"No — and  that's  the  puzzle  of  the  whole  affair.  The 
whole  glorious  display  resolved  itself  into  a  cannonade, 
with  occupation  of  the  heights  on  the  left  bank,  and  nothing 
further.  Though  the  French  foreposts  actually  occupied 
the  three  bridges  and  held  the  town." 

Tower  said,  his  pale  eyes  sharp  with  intelligence: 

"Bet  you  a  tenner  it  was  done  for  the  boy.  Got  up  to 
blood  the  young 'un — cockerel  of  the  Walk  Imperial.  Gee- 
whillikins! — What  telegrams  Nap  must  have  fired  off  to 
St.  Cloud!" 

"They'll  have  read  them  in  Berlin  and  London  long 
before  they  get  to  us, ' '  said  the  Doctor,  shrugging.  ' '  Where 
are  you  off  to,  Brotherton?" 

Brotherton  returned — and  the  tone  was  offensive,  if  the 
words  were  not : 

"To  do  what  my  senior  Special  does  not  appear  to  think 
necessary — wire  the  news  to  Printing  House  Square." 

The  elder  answered  with  a  good-humored  twinkle: 

"Why,  that  was  done  hours  back,  by  grace  of  the 
authorities.  They  bridled  my  tongue,  but  left  my  pen  un- 
hampered. 'Knowing,  of  course,  that  the  British  Public 
must  wait  for  its  news  until  breakfast-time  to-morrow. 
Were  you  speaking  to  me,  Brotherton?" 

The  Major  was  saying  in  a  voice  as  little  like  his  own  as 


316  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  livid  mask  of  rage  he  turned  on  the  Doctor  resembled 
his  ordinarily  calm  and  placid  visage: 

' '  I  was  addressing  you,  though  it  pleased  you  not  to  hear 

me.  I  was  asking  you  what  you  meant,  by  G !  in 

stealing  a  march  on  the  man  you've  called  your  friend?" 

The  Doctor's  eyes  blazed  behind  their  gold-rimmed 
glasses.  Anger  darkened  his  handsome  sunburnt  face.  He 
drew  himself  up  and  said,  speaking  simply  and  with  dig- 
nity: 

"How  do  you  infer  that  I  have  'stolen  a  march  on  you'? 
By  taking  the  apology  they  give  one  here  for  a  cold  tub  at 
cockcrow  and  going  over  to  the  Hauptmann's  office  with 
our  papers  while  you  and  Tower  were  sleeping  like — 

"Like  dormice,  by  Gad!"  put  in  Tower.  "And  so  we 
were.  And  it's  a  case  of  the  early  bird — and  not  the  first 
time,  I'll  swear — by  thousands!  And,  Brotherton — you 
ought  to  apologize.  You  were  simply  infernally  rude  just 
now!" 

Said  the  Major  loftily: 

' '  I  gave  it  as  my  opinion  that  I  had  been  dealt  with  un- 
fairly. I  do  not  withdraw  the  words  I  used.  But  I  com- 
prehend that  my  senior  in  the  service  of  the  paper  is  not 
anxious  to  share  the  credit  of  the  earliest  intelligence  with 
regard  to  what  is  taking  place  on  the  frontier  just  now." 

"For  God's  sake,  Chris,  don't  say  what  you'll  be  sorry 
for!" 

"I'll  say  what  I  think,  to  you,  sir,  or  to  the  King  of 
Prussia ! ' ' 

The  gray-bearded,  strongly-featured  face,  with  the  look 
of  generous  sorrow  on  it,  and  the  younger,  fairer,  hand- 
somer face,  with  the  stamp  of  arrogance  and  vanity  and 
pride  marring  its  manly  beauty,  confronted  each  other  in 
silence,  until,  with  an  impatient  snarl,  Brotherton  swung 
round  upon  his  heel. 

' '  Look  here ! — look  here ! — where  the  merry  hell  are  you 
off  to?"  Tower  spluttered,  grabbing  at  the  sleeve  of  the 
splendid  scarlet  tunic.  "Not  going  to  part  company  for 
a  misunderstanding — hey  ? ' ' 

"I  am  going  to  part  company,"  Brotherton  returned 
bitterly,  freeing  himself  from  the  detaining  hand,  "since 
the  jealousy  that  hampered  me  in  my  military  career 
threatens  to  mar  my  prospects  now.  "Where  I  am  going  to 
I  cannot  tell  you — probably  you  will  hear  from  me,  but  I 


cannot  promise  it.  Good-bye!  Or — if  you  prefer  it — 
Auf  wiedersehen!" 

He  shook  hands  with  Tower,  nodded  coldly  to  the  aston- 
ished P.  C.  Breagh,  formally  saluted  the  Doctor,  who  re- 
turned with  a  slight  bow,  picked  up  his  cap  and  cloak 
and  strode  away  over  the  sun-dried  grass  and  the  hot  yellow 
gravel,  making  for  the  gaudily  painted  iron  gates  that 
ended  the  drive. 

"Oh,  Chris,  man-alive,  and  am  I  jealous  of  ye?"  said 
the  Doctor,  his  spectacles  dewy  with  irrepressible  laughter, 
as  the  gallant  figure  in  its  gorgeous  scarlet  and  golden 
trappings  was  swallowed  in  a  crowd  of  blue  uniforms :  "  If 
you'd  waited  another  minute,  I'd  have  told  you  of  some- 
thing else  your  senior  in  the  service  of  the  paper  by  seven- 
teen years,  some  odd  days,  and  a  minute  or  two  isn't 
anxious  to  share  with  you,  and  that  is  a  reputation  for  not 
being  a  hot-headed,  unreasonable  young  ass ! ' ' 

"He's  making  a  bee-line  for  the  Railway  Station,"  said 
Tower,  wiping  his  heated  forehead  with  a  gaudily-hued 
silk  handkerchief,  "and  if  he  comes  across  any  of  those 
Transport  swells  there  '11  be  the  deuce  to  pay.  He 's  got  the 
bit  in  his  teeth  and  his  tail  tight  down  over  the  ribbons,  by 
George  ! — and  he  '11  kick  the  trap  to  pieces  and  lame  himself 
to  a  dead  certainty.  Shall  I  go  after  him  and  try  to  soother 
him  down  a  bit?" 

The  Doctor  shrugged  assent. 

"If  you  think  'twill  be  any  good!  .  .  .  Meanwhile  I 
have  to  write  a  letter  or  two,  and  pack,  or  rout  my  man 
out  of  the  servants'  quarters  to  do  it.  As  for  you,  my 
boyo!" — he  turned  on  P.  C.  Breagh  a  keen,  humorous 
glance  that  summoned  up  blushes  to  mantle  under  the 
railway  grime — ' '  a  wash  and  brush-up  will  do  you  no  harm, 
and  besides — my  absconding  Berliner  isn't  described  on 
his  passport  as  a  mulatto ! ' ' 

Tower  came  back  in  half  an  hour,  reporting  failure  in 
the  attempt  to  pacify  Brotherton,  who  nevertheless  joined 
the  Doctor's  little  party  at  the  station,  having  apparently 
recovered  his  serenity  of  temper,  and  abandoned  his  deter- 
mination to  forswear  his  senior's  company. 

Beer,  coffee,  bread  and  meat  were  still  being  lavishly 
distributed  among  the  troops  continually  parading  for 
departure,  and  the  train-loads  of  soldiers  passing  through. 


318  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

And  the  exodus  of  panic-stricken  visitors,  flying  from  the 
little  up-Rhine  watering  places,  in  apprehension  of  the 
arrival  of  the  Emperor  with  his  mitrailleuses,  continued; 
until,  in  another  hour,  the  shrunken  finger  of  the  Warlock 
wagged,  and  thenceforth  the  Rhine  Valley  Railways  were 
totally  blocked  for  civilian  passengers,  and  given  over  to 
the  transport  of  men  and  munitions  of  war. 

Presently,  when  a  train  of  coal-trucks  from  Kreuznach 
came  jolting  into  Bingen,  bearing  on  their  sable  flanks  the 
chalk  hieroglyphics  that  signified  their  official  emptiness, 
P.  C.  Breagh  was  destined  to  behold  personages  of  the 
loftiest  rank  and  the  utmost  exclusiveness,  German  Serene 
Highnesses,  Austrian  Duchesses,  and  English  peeresses, 
with  their  children  and  lap-dogs,  their  maids,  chefs,  coach- 
men, lackeys,  and  grooms,  packed  into  these  grimy  vehicles 
without  precedence  or  selection,  or  any  seating-accommo- 
dation other  than  that  afforded  by  an  empty  sack  or  an 
armful  of  straw. 

The  troop-train  conveying  the  mounted  gendarmerie  of 
the  Third  Army  Corps — huge  men  equipped  as  dragoons — 
to  Mayence,  afforded  accommodation  to  the  men,  horses 
and  vans  of  the  Doctor's  party.  Long  before  the  fortifica- 
tions came  in  sight  the  roads  were  blotted  out  by  marching 
columns,  and  the  fields  were  dotted  with  moving  transport- 
trains. 

At  Mayence,  whose  stone-paved  streets  were  roaring  with 
the  passage  of  iron-shod  wheels,  the  trampling  of  iron- 
shod  hoofs,  and  the  measured  tramping  of  infantry  bat- 
talions, the  Doctor,  stepping  from  the  train,  was  seized 
upon  by  friends.  Yet  after  the  first  eager  interchange  of 
interrogations  and  answers,  he  found  time  to  bestow  a  part- 
ing hand-grip  on  Carolan  and  a  final  word  of  advice. 

"And — put  this  in  your  pocket — it'll  be  a  help  to  you 
if  it  doesn  't  hang  you.  They  're  lithographed  by  the  Prus- 
sian War  Department,  and  every  German  officer  has  one. 
And  here's  something  else,  a  lot  more  use  than  the  revolver 
those  chaps  stole  from  you.  You  '11  know  better  than  to  use 
it  unless  in  case  of  need ! ' ' 

This  was  a  folding  pocket-map  of  the  Eastern  Depart- 
ments of  France,  with  certain  military  routes  very  nicely 
marked  in  red  upon  it.  While  the  something  else  proved 
to  be  a  wicker-covered  metal  pocket-flask,  containing  about 
half-a-pint  of  the  whisky  of  Kinahan. 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  319 

The  donor  added : 

"Remember,  train  your  memory  to  pigeon-hole  things 
for  later  description,  and  never  be  caught  taking  notes,  or 
fighting  on  a  side !  And — be  on  your  guard  with  women, 
pretty  ones  especially.  And — there's  a  scrap  of  paper  in 
the  pocket  of  the  map-cover,  may  come  in  handy,  at  a  pinch. 
No,  no  thanks !  General  von  Reigen,  that 's  the  light  blue 
"Wiirtemburg  Hussar  officer  talking  to  Tower — tells  me 
Moltke  and  his  staff  are  quartered  at  the  Hotel  de  Holland. 
If  so,  the  King  won't  be  far  off.  He  things  Bismarck  has 
gone  to  a  house  outside  the  town,  but  he  can't  swear  to  it. 
There  goes  a  carriage  with  the  Red  Prince's  big  buck- 
nigger  on  the  box.  Shows  his  Highness  must  be  some- 
where hereabouts.  As  for  the  Crown  Prince,  nobody  will 
say  anything.  He 's  marching — with  an  end  in  view.  And 
they  say  the  French  are  shooting  uncommonly  badly — and 
that  half  of  the  Reserve  men  don't  know  how  to  use  their 
ehassepots.  Well,  they  '11  have  practice  enough,  before  long. 
Good  luck,  and  good-bye ! ' ' 

The  "scrap  of  paper,"  upon  later  examination,  proved 
to  be  a  five-pound  note,  placed  there  by  the  hand  that 
later  penned  those  wonderful  war-letters — under  a  wayside 
hedge,  at  a  corner  of  a  plank  bivouac-table,  on  the  zinc 
counter  of  a  wine-shop  filled  with  carousing  soldiers — at  the 
ebony  and  tortoiseshell  escritoire  of  Madame  la  Marquise, 
in  the  boudoir  of  the  chateau  that  had  been  so  sorely  bat- 
tered by  those  big  potatoes  of  Moltke 's. 

Kind  little,  great  man;  a  whole  chestful  of  Orders  had 
no  power  to  chill  the  big  warm  heart  that  prompted  your 
many  deeds  of  generosity.  It  molders  in  a  coffin  now, 
and  the  decorations  are  dimming  with  dust  in  a  glass- 
topped  box.  But  beyond  the  Veil  that  parts  the  seen  from 
the  unseen  world,  I  like  to  think  that  there  were  waiting 
for  you  rewards  and  honors,  in  comparison  with  which  the 
most  coveted  earthly  insignia  were  vilest  dirt  and  dross. 


XXXVI 

SAID  the  sutler-woman,  whose  coarse  black  hair  was 
powdered  white  as  any  lady's  of  the  early  eighteenth 
century,  smearing  the  dust  from  the  peonies  of  her 


320  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

cheeks  with  a  brawny  arm  that  was  dusty  as  any 
miller 's : 

"Young  man,  if  thou  stick  to  thy  word,  and  take  good 
care  of  the  jackass,  remembering  the  sharp  nail-spike  in 
the  end  of  the  whip-butt  if  he  tries  to  kick  or  bite — I'll 
creep  in  under  the  tilt  and  take  a  forty-winks.  Lord  be 
thanked  !  my  legs  are  sound,  but  they  ache  a  bit ! ' ' 

The  jackass,  who  boasted  the  not  inglorious  name  of 
' '  Rumschottel, "  laid  back  his  ears  viciously  at  his  mis- 
tress's reference  to  the  persuasive  spike  in  the  whip-butt, 
and  the  young  man  addressed  by  his  temporary  employer 
nodded  in  assent  without  opening  his  lips.  For  the  dust 
in  which  the  little  tilt-cart  moved  was  almost  solid,  being 
kicked  up  by  the  Seventh  Corps  of  the  Second  Army  of 
Germany,  in  line  of  march  through  the  Haardt  Wald  by 
Kaiserslautern. 

The  sutler-woman's  young  man  had  marched  with  the 
Fifth  Corps  from  Mayence  by  Oppenheim  and  Alzey,  and 
had  picked  up  an  American  tourist  who  knew  of  a  short  cut 
to  Kaiserslautern,  and  had  mislaid  the  Army  Corps  in 
trying  to  find  it.  Staffs,  squadrons,  batteries,  battalions, 
transport  and  baggage  had  vanished  like  smoke  among 
these  vineyard-and-forest-clad  hills,  these  pine- jacketed 
gorges,  these  roads  that  ran  between  natural  ramparts  of 
granite,  or  passed  through  quaint  villages  tucked  under 
hillsides  crimson  android  with  laden  appletrees,  and 
dominated  by  ancient  castles  perched  on  towering  plat- 
forms of  rock. 

Scenery  palls  when  the  thigh-bones  seem  wearing  through 
their  sockets ;  when  the  stomach  complains  for  very  empti- 
ness, and  there  are  bloody  blisters  inside  the  ragged  socks. 
The  American  wrho  had  been  so  cocksure  about  the  road  to 
Kaiserslautern  was  lying  up  under  a  peasant's  penthouse- 
thatch,  at  a  twenty-mile  distant  village,  drinking  Kirsch, 
nursing  his  own  skinless  heels,  and  reading  up  ' '  Murray. ' ' 
His  late  companion  had  refused  to  give  in,  and  perse- 
verance had  won  its  reward.  Sixty  miles  or  so  above 
Kreuznach,  where  the  main  road  forks  right  and  left,  climb- 
ing the  shoulders  of  the  Nahe  Valley,  he  had  met  the  Ninth 
Corps  of  the  Second  Army  marching  up  from  Bingen,  and 
hobbled  at  the  heels  of  one  of  the  dusty  battalions  until 
he  could  hobble  no  more. 

The  sutler-woman  had  come  upon  him  sitting  pumped- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  321 

out  by  the  wayside,  had  sold  him  bread,  coffee  and  sausage, 
doctored  his  blisters,  supplied  him  with  tallowed  strips  of 
linen  to  replace  his  wornout  socks,  earned  his  gratitude, 
and  displayed  no  reluctance  to  profit  by  her  philanthropy, 
when  he  had  volunteered  to  help  lead  the  jackass  as  far  as 
Kaiserslautern.  True,  he  spoke  a  most  vile  jargon,  but 
you  cannot  have  everything.  And  the  weather  was  so 
beautifully  dusty,  thought  the  sutler- woman,  that  an  as- 
sistant would  certainly  be  of  use.  Without  the  dust  that 
clogs  the  human  throat,  the  trade  in  liquid  lubricants  would 
be  less  roaring.  And  the  tilt-cart  contained,  beside  other 
marching-requisites,  a  twenty-gallon  barrel  of  rather  luke- 
warm beer. 

The  young  man  nodded  again  as  the  cart-shafts  tilted  in 
the  hame-straps,  and  a  command  to  throw  his  weight  on  the 
front-board  was  issued  from  behind.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  creaking  as  he  obeyed.  A  heavy  weight  suddenly 
added  to  the  jackass's  load  made  Rumschottel  look  malev- 
olently round  his  near-side  blinker,  and  display  an  upper 
row  of  long  orange-colored  teeth  in  testimony  of  his  desire 
to  bite.  Then  his  driver  slid  off  the  board,  took  the  rope 
reins,  and  continued  to  trudge  beside  him,  keeping  well 
to  the  low  hedgerow  so  as  to  leave  a  clear  space  between 
the  sutler's  cart  and  the  seemingly  endless  column  of 
dusty  infantrymen,  striding  steadily  forward  through  a 
blazing  August  noon. 

Ahead,  where  black-and-white  and  white-and-black  lance- 
pennons  flickered  at  the  turn  of  the  road  below  a  steep  hill- 
shoulder  covered  with  bronzing  vineyards  heavy  with  pur- 
pling grapes,  the  light-blue  of  a  Prussian  Dragoon  regi- 
ment and  the  facings  of  a  squadron  of  Red  Uhlans  showed 
through  the  thick  coating  of  dust  that  clung  to  horse  and 
man.  But  the  dark  uniforms  of  a  succeeding  battery  of 
Horse  Artillery  and  the  indigo  or  rifle-green  of  the  bat- 
talions that  marched  with  the  needle-gun,  had  long  ago 
given  place  to  a  pervasive  whitey-brown. 

Schmidt,  Klaus,  and  Klein  were  pressing  on  in  spite  of 
dust  and  an  eighty-five-in-the-shade  thermometer,  you  must 
understand,  so  as  not  to  get  left  out  of  the  fighting  that 
must  be  going  on  ahead.  For  the  First  and  Second  Corps 
of  the  Second  Army,  with  the  Headquarters  Staff,  were 
known  to  have  reached  Homburg,  and  on  the  previous 
night  the  Army  of  the  Crown  Prince  had  bivouacked  be- 


822  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

hind  the  Klingbach,  south  of  Landau.  .  .  .  Five  or  six  in 
the  morning,  supposing  him  to  have  marched  at  dawn, 
would  see  him  well  across  the  frontier.  And  scouts  on  the 
hills  had  heliographed  and  flag-signaled  the  arrival  of  Im- 
perial battalions  and  artillery  at  Wissembourg,  and  blue 
Baden  Dragoons  reported  a  cavalry  camp  at  Selz.  For  all 
they  knew,  "Unser  Fritz"  and  the  Napoleon  were  even  then 
at  grips. 

So  they  marched — as  they  had  marched  since  they  de- 
trained at  Bingen,  swinging  starkly  on  under  the  weight  of 
the  knapsack,  eighty  rounds  of  ammunition,  rolled  great- 
coat, camp-kettle,  sword,  spade,  water-bottle,  haversack 
and  bread-roll,  or  half-a-dozen  flint-hard  brown  biscuits 
threaded  together  on  a  bit  of  string. 

Men  sweated  and  blistered  under  the  relentless  sun,  but 
not  many  fell  out,  and  there  were  very  few  severe  cases  of 
sunstroke,  these  for  the  most  part  falling  to  the  lot  of 
Reservists.  And  in  the  hottest  part  of  the  day  a  plump  of 
thunder  broke  among  the  hills  eastward,  and  a  deluge  that 
followed  turned  the  dust  on  them  to  paste.  Then  the  sun 
came  out  again  and  baked  the  paste  hard;  and  the  sutler- 
woman  stuck  her  head  out  between  the  front  flaps  of  the 
cart-tilt,  and  told  her  young  man  to  pull  up  for  a  bit  of  a 
rest  and  a  snack. 

So  P.  C.  Breagh  unharnessed  Rumschottel,  and  the  jack- 
ass rolled  in  a  sandy  hollow  in  asinine  fashion,  and  rose 
up  braying  and  refreshed.  Then,  quite  mildly  submitting 
to  be  hobbled  by  his  mistress,  he  fell-to  upon  a  patch  of 
thistles  that  the  battery-wheels  had  spared.  And  the  sutler- 
woman,  who  answered  to  the  name  of  Krumpf,  produced 
black  bread  and  cheese,  with  peppery  sausage  of  Bruns- 
wick, and  a  mighty  tin  bottle  of  cold  milk-coffee,  from  the 
depths  of  her  vehicle,  and  liberally  dispensed  of  these  re- 
freshments to  her  servitor.  She  partook  of  them  herself, 
largely,  lacing  her  own  mug  of  coffee  out  of  a  private  bottle 
of  schnaps. 

"Hetr  Je!"  she  grumbled  presently,  "what  is  he  gaping 
at?"  For  her  young  man  had  finished  eating,  and  was 
absorbed  in  watching  marching  legs.  .  .  .  She  added, 
snorting  scornfully:  "We  might  sit  here  and  sleep  for 
three  hours,  and  they  would  still  be  going  by  when  we  woke 
up.  .  .  .  Horses'  legs  and  men's  legs,  just  as  though  they 
had  got  clockwork  inside  them.  ...  It  was  so  in  Schleswig- 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  323 

Holstein,  and  it  will  be  so  in  France.  And  what  the  Danes 
got  the  French  will  get,  and  that  will  be  a  thumping!" 
She  nodded  directly  afterward  and  dozed  heavily,  leaning 
her  broad  back  against  the  wheel  of  her  cart. 

Perhaps  she  slept  a  quarter-of-an-hour  while  the  dusty 
men  marched  by,  four  abreast,  without  slackening  pace  or 
changing  step.  They  had  hard-featured,  serious,  intelli- 
gent faces  for  the  most  part,  thought  P.  C.  Breagh,  though 
here  and  there  was  a  visage  that  bore  the  stamp  of  vice 
upon  it,  or  was  pimply  with  drink,  or  brutal,  or  merely  sly. 
They  had  ceased  to  sing,  though  their  bivouac  of  the  night 
before  had  been  patriotically  vocal;  the  dusty  instruments 
of  the  bandsmen  came  less  frequently  out  of  their  dustier 
bags.  They  marched  for  the  most  part  in  silence,  though 
the  trampling  of  their  feet  made  the  solid  ground  rever- 
berate. 

Sometimes  a  battalion  would  quit  the  road,  and  hedges 
would  go  down  before  it  as  by  magic;  and  through  the 
middle  of  a  field  of  browning  corn  or  whitening  barley 
a  broad  white  highway  would  be  beaten  hard  as  any 
threshing-floor,  bare  of  anything  save  the  most  insignificant 
tokens  of  their  passage,  such  as  a  covey  of  late-hatched 
partridge  chicks  trampled  into  rags,  a  broken  strap,  a  frag- 
ment of  biscuit,  a  scattering  of  potato-peels,  an  empty 
match-box,  the  paper  that  had  held  an  ounce  of  tobacco, 
and  many  empty  bottles  that  had  held  beer.  Rarely,  a 
great  scurry  in  the  dust  where  some  obstreperous  charger 
had  reared  and  fallen  with  his  rider,  the  extent  of  whose 
injuries  might  be  guessed  by  a  clotted  puddle  of  drying 
blood  and  a  broken  stirrup-iron.  Thus,  under  the  rhyth- 
mical tread  of  the  dusty  boots,  as  under  the  iron-shod 
wheels  and  iron-shod  hoofs  that  had  preceded  and  would 
follow  them — green  things  were  beaten  from  the  face  of 
earth,  and  fur  and  feather  fled,  as  they  were  flying  before 
the  Third  Army,  marching  toward  Wissembourg;  as  they 
were  flying  before  Steinmetz,  bringing  the  First  Army  from 
the  North. 

Where  they  halted  they  left  their  taint  by  the  scorched 
hedgerows,  and  the  black  circles  of  their  great  fires  re- 
mained to  tell  of  them,  like  the  soil-pits  that  scarred  the 
fields  where  they  had  bivouacked.  Last  night,  by  some  de- 
lusion of  the  wearied  senses  of  sight  and  hearing,  they  had 
seemed  to  the  boy  who  had  slept  on  the  outskirts  of  their 


824  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

camp  to  be  marching  even  as  they  slept.  The  lusty  snoring 
of  the  countless  swathes  of  sleepers  between  the  long, 
orderly  rows  of  stacked  needle-guns  topped  with  gilt-spiked 
helmets,  suggested  the  rushing  of  a  host  in  onward  motion. 
When  the  boy  who  had  lain  through  the  night  under  the 
sutler-woman's  cart  to  guard  it  from  light-fingered  mar- 
auders had  fallen  into  a  troubled  slumber,  his  blistered 
feet  had  carried  him  on  in  dreams  behind  them  still.  Then 
in  the  blue  dusk  before  dawn  cavalry  trumpets  far  ahead 
and  shrill  bugles  near  at  hand  had  shrilled  reveille — and 
when  the  tremendous  war-machine  rushed  on  again  once 
more,  the  dusty  boy  had  been  caught  up  once  more  by  the 
wind  of  its  going,  and  drawn  along  with  it,  as  a  chip  is 
whirled  in  the  under-draught  of  a  rushing  express-train, 
or  a  wisp  of  hay  is  caught  up  by  a  traveling  tornado,  and 
borne  upon  its  dreadful  way. 

He  grinned  now,  reminiscent  of  the  Doctor's  analogy,  as 
a  blunt-nosed,  shaggy  dog  of  no  distinguishable  breed 
trotted  past,  sneezing,  between  the  files  at  the  rear  of  a  half- 
company-column.  "Whose  is  the  beast?"  he  heard  a  sol- 
dier ask  his  neighbor  on  the  right-hand,  and :  ' '  Nobody 's — 
joined  the  battalion  at  Bingen!"  was  the  reply.  Upon 
which  the  inquirer  tossed  the  canine  waif  a  scrap  of  biscuit, 
with  "Here,  Bang!"  and  Bang,  thus  adopted  and  chris- 
tened, neatly  caught  the  morsel,  bolted  it,  and  trotted  on, — 
no  more  an  ownerless  mongrel,  but  a  regimental  dog. 

Now  the  sutler-woman  was  waking,  rubbing  the  sleep  out 
of  a  pair  of  eyes  which  were  less  bright  than  they  had  been 
before  their  owner  became  addicted  to  the  use  of  beer  with 
schnaps  as  a  lacing.  She  had  an  incipient  beard,  and  the 
voice  of  a  heavy  dragoon,  yet  there  was  a  tinge  of  womanly 
coquetry  in  her  way  of  straightening  her  big,  battered 
bonnet,  and  adjusting  the  checked  blue-and-yellow  shawl 
tied  crosswise  over  her  voluminous  bust.  She  yawned, 
struggled  to  the  perpendicular  position,  with  some  diffi- 
culty, owing  to  her  corpulence ;  and  cried,  pointing  a  stout 
red  finger  at  her  henchman,  yet  squatting  in  the  shade  of 
a  clump  of  dusty  whins : 

"Lord !  if  he  isn't  mooning  still,  with  his  chin  on  his  two 
fists !  Such  a  gimpel  I  never  yet  did  see !  But  they  say  all 
the  Englisch  are  mad,  their  climate  makes  them  so.  Other- 


THE   MAN   OE   IRON  325 

wise  would  they  not  live  in  their  country? — but  no!  they 
can't,  flier  I  Catch  Eumschottel,  and  let's  be  moving!" 

P.  C.  Breagh  obliged,  undisturbed  by  the  appellation  of 
idiot,  or  the  contumely  heaped  on  the  United  Kingdom. 
It  was  better  to  be  on  the  black  books  of  the  sutler-woman 
than  distinguished  by  her  too-favorable  regard. 

For  though  the  stout  proprietress  of  the  tilt-cart  had 
undoubtedly  played  the  part  of  a  Samaritaness  toward 
the  wandering  Englander,  she  was,  it  had  to  be  owned, 
more  charitable  than  chaste;  trading  not  only  in  beer, 
bread,  sausages,  matches,  cheap  packs  of  cards,  dominoes, 
pipe-tobacco,  sweets  and  pickled  cucumbers,  but  following, 
between  marches,  the  oldest  profession  in  the  world. 

Being  invited  on  the  previous  evening  to  convey  a  verbal 
billet 'of  the  amorous  kind  to  a  young  Pioneer  of  Wiirtem- 
berg  Artillery,  P.  C.  Breagh  had  flatly  declined.  Conceiv- 
ing the  refusal  to  be  prompted  by  jealousy,  Frau  or  Frau- 
lein  Krumpf  had  not  taken  it  in  ill  part.  Until,  being 
undeceived  upon  this  point,  she  uncorked  the  vials  of  her 
anger  and  exerted  a  gift  for  vituperation  justly  celebrated 
among  her  clients  of  the  rank  and  file. 

"You  threadling,  you  whipper-snapper!  You  pickled 
herring  in  a  jacket  and  breeches!  There  is  a  man  buried 
in  the  Domkirche  at  Mainz,  where  I  belong,  that  has  been 
dead  over  a  hundred  years,  and  has  more  of  good  red  life 
in  him  to-day  than  thou!  'Frauenlob,'  they  called  him, 
because  he  couldn't  live  without  women,  and  women!  and 
when  he  died,  eight  of  the  town-girls  carried  him  on  his 
bier.  And  they  poured  wine  over  his  grave  so  that  you 
stepped  up  to  your  knees  in  it — all  because  he  had  liked 
the  women  as  a  tom-cat  likes  cream!" 

The  first  spate  of  her  resentment  over,  she  had  accepted 
the  situation.  But  the  wound  remained ;  and  as  the  better- 
half  of  Potiphar  may  have  railed  at  her  husband's  young 
Hebrew  steward,  the  sutler-woman  nagged  at  the  young 
man  who  limped  beside  her  jackass,  through  the  deep  wel- 
come shade  of  ancient  oak-forests  or  over  long  blistering 
stretches  of  naked  mountain  roads,  as  those  tireless,  dusty 
men  marched  by. 

There  was  no  keeping  up  with  them;  they  passed,  and 
others  swarmed  after  them.  Batteries  succeeded  battalions, 
ammunition  and  baggage,  ambulance  and  commissariat- 


326  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

trains  were  followed  by  yet  other  battalions,  while  the 
sweat  dripped  into  the  eyes  of  P.  C.  Breagh  and  the  skin 
wore  off  his  heels. 

At  midday,  when  his  chest  hurt  with  the  very  act  of 
breathing  and  his  straining  muscles  seemed  about  to  crack, 
a  man  died. 

He  was  an  infantryman  of  Hessians,  and  it  happened 
quite  suddenly.  P.  C.  Breagh,  who  had  long  ago  aban- 
doned all  unnecessary  integuments,  marching  without  coat, 
vest,  collar,  or  braces,  had  noticed  him  a  moment  previously 
swinging  along  with  unbuttoned  uniform — it  was  marvel- 
ous how  small  a  minority  of  the  soldiers  had  sought  this 
method  of  relief.  .  .  .  His  open  shirt  showed  the  lighter 
skin  of  his  bare  chest,  his  pickelhaube  was  perched  upon  the 
cooking-pan  crowning  his  knapsack-top,  and  he  had  draped 
a  wetted  red  handkerchief  over  his  steaming  head. 

Save  that  his  face  was  purple  with  congested  blood,  so 
that  his  pale,  staring  eyes  seemed  colorless  by  comparison, 
and  he  walked  with  open  mouth,  the  Adam's  apple  in  his 
lean  throat  jerking  as  he  gulped  down  the  hot  air,  he  con- 
veyed no  dire  impression  of  breakdown.  But  suddenly  he 
stumbled  and  spun  round,  as  if  seized  by  sudden  giddiness, 
clutching  at  his  shirt-breast,  dropping  his  gun.  Men  were 
thrown  out  of  step  as  he  fell,  with  an  absurd  clatter  of  metal 
and  tin-ware.  Yet  they  marched  on  without  a  pause. 

Others  came,  stepping  over  the  fallen  figure  lying 
huddled  in  the  way.  Its  fingers  moved,  paddling  in  the 
dust;  and  P.  C.  Breagh,  yielding  to  a  sudden  impulse, 
dropped  the  bridle  of  the  jackass,  ran  in,  grabbed  hold 
and  hauled  the  heavy  body  out  of  the  way. 

"What  are  you  doing,  born  stupid  that  you  are?"  the 
sutler-woman  cried  viciously,  for  Rumschottel  had  swerved 
aside  to  the  hedge  and  was  ravenously  devouring  weeds. 
She  added,  becoming  aware  of  the  prone  infantryman,  who 
was  lying  on  his  back  staring  at  the  sun  unwinkingly :  ' '  It 
it  all  up  with  that  one,  his  eyes  are  turning  white  already. 
Such  as  he  have  never  six  pfennigs  to  pay  for  other  folks' 
time  and  trouble.  Better  leave  him  for  the  Feld-lazarett 
to  pick  up." 

But  P.  C.  Breagh  only  grunted  dourly,  hunkering  by  the 
prostrate  Hessian,  and  with  a  parting  sarcasm  the  pro- 
prietress of  Rumschottel  seized  her  beast's  head  and 
trudged  on.  if  she  had  looked  back,  she  would  have  seen 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  327 

good  Irish  whisky  wasted.  For  despite  the  shade  of  the 
tree  under  which  he  was  hauled,  the  rolled-up  coat  thrust 
under  his  head  and  the  laving  of  his  face  and  breast  with 
spirit,  it  was  all  up  with  the  man,  as  she  had  prophesied. 

He  grabbled  with  his  sunburnt  fingers  in  the  dust  a 
little,  and  tried  to  lift  a  hand  to  his  perspiring  chest.  By 
the  tin  crucifix  dependent  from  a  leather  bootlace  round  his 
neck,  you  could  tell  that  he  tried  to  make  the  sacred  Sign. 
Then  his  eyes  rolled  up,  and  an  expression  of  great  surprise 
overspread  his  discolored  countenance.  His  knees  jerked 
and  a  sound  like  a  rotten  stick  of  wood,  breaking,  came 
from  his  open  mouth, 


XXXVII 

HE  would  breathe  for  possibly  an  hour  longer,  but  prac- 
tically the  man  was  dead.  Still  listening  for  the  faint, 
intermittent  heart-beats,  a  splash  of  gravel  stung  P.  C. 
Breagh  smartly  in  the  neck  and  cheek,  and  the  dull  thunder 
of  horse-hoofs  came  unpleasantly  close  and  stopped.  He 
lifted  his  ear  from  the  rattling  chest,  and  looked  up  into 
the  face  of  an  infantry  officer,  who  was  reining  up  his 
beast  and  bending  from  the  saddle  as  he  looked  at  the 
casualty  on  the  ground.  The  officer  asked  in  staccato  sen- 
tences : 

"  It  is  a  case  of  heat-stroke  ?    You  are  a  doctor  ? ' ' 
P.  C.  Breagh  answered  shortly: 
"Enough  of  one  to  know  that  there  is  no  hope." 
The  horse,  a  fine,  spirited  animal,  hoofed  the  ground 
impatiently.     The  captain  said,  patting  the  glossy,  sweat- 
ing neck: 

' '  Very  good.  Will  you  kindly  show  me  his  name-tag  ? ' ' 
P.  C.  Breagh  found  the  zinc  label,  bearing  the  moribund 
Hessian's  name,  regimental,  battalion  and  company-num- 
ber, and  turned  it  face-upward  on  the  discolored  breast. 
The  captain,  leaning  from  the  saddle,  read,  and  mentally 
registered.  His  keen  eyes,  hedged  with  dusty  fair  lashes, 
narrowed  against  the  blinding  white  sunshine  and,  some- 
what bloodshot  with  heat  and  fatigue,  had  something  like 
a  smile  in  them ;  and  for  some  reason,  to  the  dusty  young 
man  who  squatted  on  the  ground  by  the  dying,  the  smile 


328  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

was  an  offense.  He  scowled,  and  the  officer,  noting  this, 
asked  curiously : 

' '  Were  you  acquainted  with  that  one,  then  ? ' ' 

He  indicated  the  body  by  an  overhand  thumb-gesture. 
Eesenting  the  gesture  for  the  same  inexplicable  reason,  P. 
C.  Breagh  responded  with  a  head-shake.  The  captain 
pursued,  pulling  the  damp  and  blackened  reins  between  his 
gloved  fingers,  stained  with  his  own  sweat  and  the  horse's 
within  the  palms.  .  .  . 

"I  asked,  because  you  seemed — how  shall  one  put  it? — 
sorry  for  him,  you  know!" 

The  dust-smeared,  freckled  face  turned  on  the  inter- 
locutor angrily.  The  smouldering  fire  in  the  eyes  leaped 
into  sudden  flame : 

' '  I  am,  damned  sorry  for  him !  To  come  by  his  end  like 
this — without  firing  a  single  shot!" 

There  was  something  unusual  about  this  little  dialogue, 
carried  on  between  the  smart  mounted  officer  and  the  foot- 
sore, untidy  pedestrian,  over  the  body  stretched  out  by 
the  roadside.  As  the  broad  stream  of  marching  men  flowed 
by,  curious  eyes  rolled  their  way,  the  whites  showing 
startlingly  in  their  owners'  sunburned  faces.  Men  won- 
dered what  he  had  died  of,  and  what  they  were  discussing 
there.  And  P.  C.  Breagh  went  on,  his  mouth  pulled  awry 
with  wrathful  bitterness: 

"He  was  as  good  a  patriot,  I'd  bet  my  hat! — as  any 
fellow  in  his  battalion.  He  set  as  much  store  as  others  by 
King  and  Fatherland!  I  daresay  he  dreamed  of  getting 
the  Distinguished  Service  medal  for  some  tremendous  act 
of  gallantry,  and  astonishing  his  wife — he  wears  a  wedding 
ring,  so  I  suppose  he  had  one ! — with  it  when  he  got  home. 
And  now  it's  all  over.  It  makes  me  feel  sick.  All  over, 
and  nothing  to  show  for  it!" 

The  blank,  rolled-up  eyes,  staring  unwinkingly  in  the 
face  of  the  coppery,  westering  sun,  and  the  discolored  face, 
with  the  look  of  agonized  surprise  now  fixed  upon  it, 
seemed  to  echo  dumbly:  "Nothing  but  this!"  The  officer 
returned : 

"So!  but  there  will  be  a  war-pension  for  the  widow,  as 
he  died  upon  Active  Service,  and  that  will  not  be  so  bad, 
after  all.  And  presently  the  Feld-lazarett  will  come  up  and 
put  him  in  a  wagon.  He  will  be  buried  at  sundown,  when 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  3291 

we  halt.  .  .  .  They  will  give  him  a  firing  party  and  a 
bugler — everything  will  be  done  decently.  After  a  battle 
there  is  not  always — you  understand  ?  .  .  . " 

He  shrugged,  and  the  Danish  and  Austrian  war-medals 
on  his  dark  blue  tunic  glinted,  in  witness  of  his  ripe  knowl- 
edge and  experience.  Hating  him  still  more  vigorously, 
P.  C.  Breagh  ended  his  sentence: 

"Not  always  time  to  stow  away  lost  pawns!" 

"  'Pawns!'  My  worthy  sir,  our  pawns  are  battalions!" 
The  captain  laughed,  showing  even,  but  tobacco-stained 
teeth  under  his  thick  brown  mustache.  "This  was — a 
unit  among  myriads  of  myriads.  .  .  .  You  will  find  plenty 
of  work  waiting  for  you  among  his  comrades,  if,  as  I  guess, 
you  are  a  graduate  in  surgery  out  for  practice.  .  .  .  Let 
me  advise  you  to  join  a  Bed  Cross  ambulance — the  arm- 
badge  is  a  protection — of  a  definite  kind." 

He  saluted,  gave  rein,  and  the  tired,  yet  impatient  horse 
snorted  relief,  and  cantered  on  with  him,  sending  another 
shower  of  dust-grains  and  gravel-grit  over  the  extinct 
"unit  among  myriads  of  myriads"  and  the  unkempt 
Samaritan  hunkering  by  its  side. 

A  scalding  wave  of  bitterness  and  resentment  had  swept 
over  him  a  moment  previously.  Behind  and  through  the 
officer's  brown-eyed,  good-looking  face  he  had  seen  the 
fierce,  challenging  blue  stare  and  great  domed  skull  and 
bulldog  jaw  of  the  great  Minister  who  made  wars  at  will. 
And  the  limp,  dead  body  of  the  "unit  among  myriads  of 
myriads,"  lying  by  the  beaten  track  where  twenty  thou- 
sand men  thus  clad  and  armed  had  passed  already,  had 
awakened  in  him  a  rage  of  pity  and  a  fury  of  disgust. 

This  War  that  had  seemed  such  a  huge  and  splendid 
world-event,  shaking  sovereigns  upon  their  thrones  and 
stirring  nations  to  wildest  enthusiasm,  meant  catastrophes 
innumerable  as  minute ;  infinitesimal  tragedies  never  to  be 
heard  of,  related  or  known, — involving  the  humbler  and 
the  weaker  among  the  people  of  both  sides. 

Meanwhile — here  was  a  letter,  pinned  inside  the  dead 
man's  shirt,  an  ill-spelt,  loving  scrawl,  containing  a  wilted 
sprig  of  some  kind  of  garden-herb,  smelling  evilly. 

"Glory  is  glory,"  said  the  poor  soul  who  wrote,  "but  so 
thou  bring  thyself  safe  back  to  me  and  the  Kinder,  that  will 
be  enough."  Meanwhile,  entreating  her  lambkin  to  re- 


330  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

member  that  "old  man"  kept  off  the  fleas,  she  enclosed 
"a  bit  picked  from  the  clump  in  the  garden  border  by  the 
old  red  gooseberry  bush, ' '  and  with  a  tender  inquiry  after 
his  poor  corns,  and  a  row  of  blotty  kisses,  signed  herself 
his  faithful  wife  Lottchen.  One  could  only  be  sorry  for 
poor  Lottchen  and  note  down  her  address,  together  with, 
her  deceased  lambkin's  name  and  regiment,  and  send  her 
presently  a  line  from  a  stranger  who  had  been  near  him 
when  he  died. 

For  the  unit  among  myriads  of  myriads,  nothing 
could  be  done  beyond  pulling  his  yet  pliant  limbs  into 
decent  straightness  and  folding  the  already  stiffening  hands 
upon  the  unheaving  breast.  Then  P.  C.  Breagh  covered 
his  face  with  the  red  handkerchief,  and — a  tin  crucifix 
being  suspended  from  the  neck  by  a  leather  bootlace — 
touched  the  violet-mottled  lips  with  it,  and  whispered  a 
prayer  for  the  departed  soul,  before,  resuming  possession 
of  his  discarded  jacket  and  shouldering  his  knapsack,  he 
trudged  upon  his  way. 

"Our  Moltke"  was  testing  his  material  at  the  outset, 
by  heavy  marching.  Since  breakfast-time  there  had  been 
no  halt;  the  columns  of  human  flesh  and  horsemeat  had 
pegged  along,  tirelessly  as  though  the  sinews  that  bore 
them  had  been  forged  of  elastic  steel. 

The  blazing  sun  set  in  a  great  whirlpool  of  molten  rubies 
and  gold  beyond  the  Birkenfeld,  while  the  sky  to  the  north 
and  east  was  green,  with  a  vivid,  springlike  hue.  The 
clear,  thin  dusk  of  August  fell,  yet  the  tireless  columns 
marched  on — and  in  company  of  other,  even  queerer  way- 
farers, the  dusty  young  man  with  the  knapsack  doggedly 
continued  to  trudge  beside  them.  When  at  length  the  halt 
was  sounded,  he  staggered  through  a  hedge-gap  into  a  field 
of  flax,  and  threw  himself  heavily  face  downward  amid 
the  yellowing  stems  that  had  long  ago  flowered,  and 
seeded,  and  ripened  for  pulling. 

Stupid  with  weariness,  he  might  have  lain  there  ten  min- 
utes, when  a  bugle  shrilled  close  by,  and  the  brown,  hairy 
heads  and  forelegs  of  the  leaders  of  a  team  of  gun-horses 
trashed  through  the  hedgerow,  the  scarlet  face,  open  shout- 
ing mouth,  and  uplifted  whip-arm  of  the  forerider  showing 
above.  As  luck  would  have  it,  orders  had  been  given  that 
a  half-battery  of  mounted  artillery  should  bivouac  in  this 
flax-field.  And  death  under  the  iron-shod  hoofs  of  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  331 

horses,  and  the  iron-shod  wheels  that  followed  them,  shaved 
very  close  to  P.  C.  Breagh. 

Yet  he  was  not  grateful  as  he  picked  himself  out  of  the 
hollow  into  which  his  frog-like,  instinctive  leap  for  life  had 
landed  him.  The  heavy  riding-whip  of  the  forerider  had 
cut  him  bitterly  across  the  loins  while  yet  in  mid-air. 
Adding  insult  to  injury,  the  artilleryman  had  cursed  his 
victim  for  getting  in  the  way  of  the  battery,  and  the  other 
riders  and  the  gunners  on  the  limber  were  grinning  from 
ear  to  ear.  Smarting,  P.  C.  Breagh  cursed  back,  in  a 
cautious  but  vigorous  whisper,  as  he  hobbled  back  to  the 
road.  .  .  . 

Upon  the  farther  side  two  half-battalions  of  infantry, 
divided  by  a  little  bushy  knoll,  were  already  encamped 
upon  a  strip  of  gorsey  grass.  The  thing  had  been  done  as 
if  by  magic,  the  officers  grouped  in  the  foreground  round 
their  little  camp  tables  were  drinking  Rhine  wine  and  beer 
as  peacefully  as  though  they  had  not  stirred  for  hours. 
Behind  them  the  battalion-color  and  the  halberd  of  the 
drum-major  had  been  planted  upright  in  the  center  of  an 
orderly  array  of  drums  and  band-instruments,  the  straight 
rows  of  knapsacks  within  rolled  greatcoats,  stretching 
away  in  the  rear,  were  divided  by  the  customary  ten-pace 
interval,  and  the  mathematically  balanced  stacks  of  needle- 
guns. 

Fires  of  brush  and  dry  cones  from  the  pine-groves  fring- 
ing the  road  crackled  in  the  small  oblong  trenches  dug  by 
the  fatigue-men.  Squad-cooks  were  cutting  up  pea-sau- 
sages, raw  potatoes,  and  onions  into  camp-kettles  of  water, 
destined  to  simmer,  slung  on  sticks  reaching  from  bank  to 
bank.  And  the  regimental  butchers  had  already  slaugh- 
tered a  couple  of  young  bullocks,  whose  skins  lay  smoking 
by  the  chopping-block.  Presently,  when  the  officers'  mess- 
cooks  had  chosen  such  joints  as  seemed  good  to  them,  the 
rest  of  the  meat  would  go  to  enrich  the  stew  of  the  rank- 
and-file.  Meanwhile  the  men,  scattered  to  the  utmost 
limits  of  the  cordon  of  sentries,  blunted  the  edge  of  hunger 
with  black  bread  and  the  flinty  brown  biscuit,  crowded 
thirstily  round  the  beer  and  wine-carts,  squatted  in  groups 
playing  cards,  chatting,  or  singing  part-songs;  wrestled 
and  ran  races,  or  dozed  lying  face  downward  on  the  sun- 
burnt grass,  their  foreheads  resting  on  their  folded  arms. 

A  charming  scene,  now  that  the  all-pervading  dust  had 


332  THE    MAN    OF   IRON 

begun  to  settle — the  bivouac  roofed  in  by  the  clear  green 
twilight,  through  which  diamond  star-points  began  to 
thrust.  If  only  one  had  been  less  sharp-set,  and  the  pro- 
prietors of  the  wine  and  beer-carts  had  had  bread  and 
sausage  to  sell  as  well  as  warm,  flat  beer  and  musty-smel- 
ling vintage,  the  beauty  would  have  appealed  to  one  a  good 
deal  more. 

Squatted  by  a  lichened  boulder  in  a  clump  of  sun- 
scorched  bracken,  P.  C.  Breagh  searched  his  pockets,  and 
then  the  recesses  of  his  knapsack,  for  something  to  eat. 
An  ancient  crust  of  black  bread  rewarded  his  investiga- 
tions, just  as  the  savory-smelling  camp-kettles  were  taken 
off  the  fires. 

He  fell  to  work  upon  his  crust  as  the  stew  was  appor- 
tioned, and  the  big  cans  of  beer  distributed  to  each  mess; 
and  as  he  gnawed  dog-like  at  the  stone-hard  lump  of  baked 
rye-dough,  he  caught  the  eye  of  one  of  the  Barmecides,  a 
merry-faced,  red-haired  young  private,  who  was  evidently 
the  jester  of  his  squad. 

"Our  soup  smells  good,  what?  "Well,  the  smell  may  be 
had  for  nothing.  He  may  fill  his  belly  with  as  much  of 
that  as  he  can ! ' ' 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  the  sally  of  the  humorist.  To 
whom  P.  C.  Breagh  nodded  assent,  and,  gravely  extending 
his  diminished  crust  in  the  quarter  from  whence  the  whiff 
of  oniony  pea-soup  came  most  powerfully,  fell  to  with 
apparently  renewed  appetite,  provoking  the  approving 
comment : 

"He  can  take  a  joke!  Well,  then,  let  him  take  this!  and 
this!  Catch  it,  junge!" 

A  lump  of  very  fresh  beef,  boiled  in  the  oniony  pea-soup, 
was  dumped  into  a  bit  of  newspaper,  screwed  up,  and 
pitched  across  to  the  supperless.  P.  C.  Breagh  gratefully 
caught  the  oleaginous  parcel  and  the  two  hard  Army  bis- 
cuits that  came  after,  and,  pulling  out  some  small  change, 
signified  his  desire  to  pitch  back  the  coins  in  return.  But 
a  big  hand  waved  them  vigorously  away,  with  the  gruff 
exclamation:  "Der  Teufell  let  him  keep  his  pfennigs.  One 
gives  a  share  of  one 's  supper — one  doesn  't  sell ! ' ' 

And  so  genuine  was  the  one  that,  despite  the  smarting 
weal  that  had  been  the  gift  of  another  less  kindly,  P.  C. 
Breagh 's  faith  in  humanity  lifted  up  its  head. 

He  disposed  of  the  grub,  and  drank  some  hill-water  tine- 


THE    MAN    OF(   IRON  333 

tured  with  Kinahan,  a  permissible  indulgence  in  view  of 
his  fatigue,  and  stuffed  the  well-used  briar-root  with  bird's 
eye,  and,  propping  his  back  comfortably  against  the 
boulder,  kindled  the  pipe  of  peace.  By  nature  clubbable, 
and  athirst  for  news,  he  would  have  liked  to  mingle  with 
the  replete,  unbuttoned  soldiers,  who,  supper  over,  gathered 
round  the  fires  to  smoke  and  chat  and  sing.  But  the  snub 
dealt  by  Valverden  had  not  left  off  smarting;  the  fear  of 
incurring  another  rebuff,  even  from  a  social  inferior,  kept 
him  aloof  and  solitary.  He  realized  with  dismay  that  his 
stock  of  self-confidence  was  beginning  to  run  low. 

"I'd  a  lot  of  faith  in  myself  when  I  accepted  that  com- 
mission from  Knewbit,"  he  ruminated,  chewing  hard  on 
the  stem  of  the  venerable  briar-root.  "More  than  half 
his  money 's  spent — what  did  I  want  with  that  revolver  ? — 
and  I  haven't  written  him  a  line.  Instead,  I've  swotted  up 
a  thundering  long  descriptive  article,  telling  people  all 
about  what  they  know  already — and  sent  it  to  that  shaved 
sea-elephant  in  a  Gladstone  collar,  who  told  me  I  might 
forward  letters  from  the  seat  of  hostilities  if  ever  I  got 
there!" 

He  frowned,  mentally  reviewing  the  points  of  the  first- 
born launched  upon  the  tide  of  speculation.  However 
ancient  its  matter  might  be,  the  vigor  and  mastery  of 
that  descriptive  article — completed  in  the  train  between 
Bingen  and  Mayence,  and  dropped  with  paternal  solicitude 
into  the  sack  of  a  corporal  of  the  Field  Post — would  surely 
— could  not  fail  to — insure  its  appearance  in  print. 

Why  did  a  horrible  conviction  of  its  utter  stodginess 
come  home  to  him  at  this  eleventh  hour?  Its  labored 
periods  revolted,  its  stately  mawkishness  sickened  his  mem- 
ory. He  knocked  out  the  pipe-bowl  against  the  boulder 
and  got  out  his  note-book  and  began  to  jot  down  a  letter 
to  Mr.  Knewbit  by  the  light  of  the  now  risen  moon,  who, 
with  Venus  blazing  emerald  at  her  opulent  side,  hung  high 
in  the  south-east,  looking  down  upon  forest  and  field, 
mountain,  valley  and  river,  and  the  armed  men  and  beasts, 
guns  and  wagon-trains,  strung  out  over  leagues  of  dis- 
tance, calmly  as  befitting  an  aged  Queen  familiar  with  the 
portents  of  War. 

She  stared  down  so  haughtily  at  the  travel-soiled  and 
dusty  scallawag  lying  upon  the  fringe  of  the  bivouac 
among  the  remnants  of  a  meal  cadged  from  a  soldier's 


334  THE    MAN,  OE   IRON 

camp-kettle,  that  he  caught  her  eye  and  broke  his  pencil- 
lead.  No !  he  couldn  't  write,  even  well  enough  to  ' '  please 
plain,  homely  people."  .  .  .  Why,  hang  it  all! — Old 
Knewbit  must  have  known  from  the  beginning,  to  do  that 
was  the  highest  and  most  difficult  art  of  all.  Men  came 
into  the  world  equipped,  as  had  come  Shakespeare,  and 
Scott,  and  Dickens,  each  with  a  single  feather,  such  as 
might  belong  to  the  wing  of  a  Phoenix  or  an  Archangel, 
sprouting  from  his  own  flesh.  Urged  by  the  inborn  crave 
to  set  down  Life,  each  had  plucked  forth  his  birth-gift  with 
a  pang  of  unutterable  anguish,  and  there,  at  the  quill-end, 
hung  a  single  drop  of  red,  red  blood.  And  that  drop  tinc- 
tured every  page  they  penned,  and  thus  what  they  wrote 
lived.  To  be  a  distinguished  War  Correspondent  one  had 
to  be  born  with  the  magic  pen-feather.  The  Doctor  had  it. 
That  was  why  his  written  sentences  dug  home  to  the  quick. 
Without  it,  Success  would  never  come  to  one,  no  matter 
how  hard  one  tried  for  it.  One  would  be  nothing  better  all 
one's  life  than  a  plodding  paragraphist. 

Pity  an  unlucky  youth,  fagged,  footsore,  and  smarting, 
not  only  from  disillusion  and  chagrin,  but  from  the  very 
recent  application  of  an  Artillery  horsewhip.  In  addition, 
the  infantry  band  had  now  begun  to  play  with  soul-melting 
sweetness.  First  "The  Lorelei,"  and  then  "Red  Dawn 
That  Lights  Me  to  My  Early  Grave, ' '  and  then  the  song  of 
Siebel  from  "Faust" — with  all  its  yearning  passion  and 
tender  anguish.  And  possibly  other  eyes  were  wet  besides 
P.  C.  Breagh's,  who  fairly  put  down  his  head  and  sobbed, 
under  cover  of  the  twilight  and  the  protecting  boulder,  as 
he  had  not  done  since  his  knickerbocker  days.  .  .  .  Not 
now  from  a  vague,  wistful  aching  for  the  voice  and  the 
touch  of  the  young,  unknown,  long-dead  mother.  Pain 
and  longing  were  there,  but  of  how  different  a  kind.  .  .  . 

The  reign  of  Briinhilde-Britomart-Isolde  was  over.  That 
night  saw  the  smallest  and  slenderest  of  heroines  estab- 
lished on  the  vacant  throne  of  the  Ideal. 

He  who  wept  was  not  the  type  of  a  young  girl's  hero, 
choking  and  gulping,  and  burrowing  his  hot,  wet  face  into 
the  dry,  rustling  fern.  But  he  suffered  as  only  youth  can 
suffer,  the  pangs  were  very  real  that  wrung  from  him  such 
stifled  cries  as  these : 

"Oh,  God!     I  love  her— Juliette  de  Bayard!  ...     I 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  335 

have  loved  her  since  the  moment  our  eyes  met.  My  in- 
fernal ingratitude  that  she  forgave  like  an  angel! — the 
brutal  things  I  thought  and  said  of  her — were  because  I 
could  not  forgive  myself  for  loving  her  so.  My  discontent, 
my  restlessness,  my  ambition  to  do  something  and  be  some- 
body— weren't  they  prompted  by  the  longing  to  cut  a 
figure  in  her  eyes !  .  .  .  Lovely  eyes ; — and  at  this  minute 
her  husband  may  be  kissing  them ! — '  the  noble  gentleman, 
brave  as  a  lion, '  who  fought  like  the  deuce  and  all !  Stop, 
though !  If  he 's  an  Army  man,  he  has  had  to  leave  her. 
Could  I  have  borne  to  do  that  if  I  had  had  the  luck  to  be 
in  his  shoes?  Yet  how  she  would  despise  a  lover  who  hesi- 
tated between  her  and  his  duty !  Even  if  ' her  heart-strings 
about  his  heels  were  tied,'  as  the  Suabian  ballad  says,  'she 
would  bid  him  march  to  war!'  For  a  girl  like  that  could 
love,  mind  you!  like.  Juliet  and  Desdemona  and  Viola 
rolled  into  one,  and  yet  never  be  blinded  by  love  into  for- 
getfulness  of  God,  or  honor,  or  loyalty.  It  is  written  in  her 
face.  Are  these  things  first  with  me?  I'm  afraid  not! 
...  I  think  not!  ...  I  know  they're  not!  .  .  .  And 
yet  I  dare  to  love  her — to  whom  they  mean  everything!" 

His  conscience  stung  and  smarted  like  the  weal  from 
the  Artillery  whip-lash.  And  the  dread  of  Death  and  the 
Hereafter  wakened  in  him,  shuddering  and  quaking  in  the 
creeping  dusk. 

Now  he  comprehended  his  own  insignificance  and  weak- 
ness and  loneliness.  .  .  .  He  had  seen  a  man  die  that 
day,  suddenly,  without  time  for  preparation,  as  thousands 
of  others  would  die  before  the  ending  of  this  war.  "What  if 
to-morrow  at  the  hottest  hour  the  trenchant  blade  of  the 
sun  should  bite  through  P.  C.  Breagh's  brain-pan?  He 
heard  the  other  self  within  him  saying  "Suppose  .  .  .?" 
And  he  asked  himself,  with  a  cold  sweat  breaking  out  upon 
his  flesh,  and  a  curious  stirring  among  the  roots  of  his 
hair,  what  would  have  happened  only  an  hour  or  two 
back,  if  the  flying  squirrel-leap  that  had  made  the  white 
teeth  flash  against  the  brown  faces  of  the  gunners  on  the 
limber,  had  failed  to  land  the  dusty  scallawag  who  had 
been  sleeping  in  the  flax-field  beyond  reach  of  the  pound- 
ing of  the  hoofs  of  the  battery-team!  .  .  . 

"Father,  I  cry  to  Thee!" 

The  soldiers  were  singing  the  Battle  Prayer  of  Korner, 
the  lusty  Teutonic  basses  and  baritones  and  tenors  mingling 


336  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

in  melodious  unison  with  the  night-breeze  that  had  risen 
with  the  moon. 

Previously  P.  C.  Breagh  might  have  smiled  at  the  simul- 
taneous production  of  hymn-books,  the  rising  at  the  word 
of  command  to  sing — the  short,  business-like  prayer  recited 
by  an  officer,  that  was  followed  by  a  crashing  Amen. 

Now,  it  seemed  to  him>  there  was  something  wholesome 
and  good  in  the  military  regulation  that  united  men  of 
every  Christian  creed  and  denomination,  with  those  who 
habitually  omitted  religion  from  the  daily  routine, 'in  the 
brief  act  of  worship  described.  .  .  .  Recalled  by  it  to  the 
teachings  of  the  Mother  Church,  he  made  the  sacred  sign 
upon  brow  and  breast,  and  whispered  his  nightly  prayers. 
The  name  of  Juliette  mingled  in  the  entreaty  that  Our 
Lord  and  His  Mother  would  bless  and  guard  those  dear  to 
the  petitioner  from  danger  and  harm. 

"And  not  let  me  come  to  grief  for  her  sake — of  course  I 
mean  Monica's!  For  she  never  would  have  loved  me  even 
if  there  hadn  't  been  another  man.  But  O !  take  care  of 
her,  and  shield  her  from  evil,  sickness,  grief,  and  danger. 
And  let  me  see  her  again  one  day!" 

He  grew  drowsy,  lying  against  the  yet  sun-warm  boulder, 
listening  to  the  distant  cry  of  the  mousing  owl,  and  the  long 
rattling  chur'r'r!  of  the  nightjar,  mingled  with  the  occa- 
sional snorting  of  the  tethered  horses,  the  measured  tramp 
of  the  sentries, — the  small  explosions  made  by  pine-cones 
thrown  upon  the  blazing  guard-fires,  and  the  other  sounds 
of  the  bivouac. 


XXXVIII 

THE  WATCH  was  set  at  nine  o'clock.  Then  the  "Lie  Down" 
sounded  far  and  near,  and  the  moon  stared  down  on  rows 
of  prone  men  wrapped  in  their  greatcoats  and  pillowed  on 
their  knapsacks,  stretching  away  under  the  pansy-dark 
canopy  of  heaven  for  miles. 

The  officers  sat  for  some  time  longer,  drinking  their 
Rhine  wine  and  playing  cards  by  moonshine  and  lantern- 
light,  or  strolling,  cigar  in  mouth,  upon  the  outskirts  of 
the  bivouac.  Several  Artillery-officers,  who  had  supped 
with  them,  went  back  to  their  own  bivouac  after  voluble 
leave-takings.  Infantry-officers,  who  had  shared  the  hos- 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  337, 

pitality  of  the  gunners,  returned,  enlivening  the  night  with, 
scraps  of  gossip,  and  more  or  less  melodious  song. 

A  couple  of  these  late-comers  halted  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  cordon  of  sentries  to  finish  a  confidential  conversation. 
The  moon  was  obscured  by  clouds,  the  bivouac  was  swathed 
in  shadow.  Of  the  lumpy  boulder  by  which  the  Adjutant 
stood,  only  its  shape  could  be  discerned  against  the  dusty- 
pale  grass  by  the  dust- white  road. 

Said  the  Adjutant  to  the  senior  Captain,  and  the  ex- 
cellent cigar  he  was  smoking  smelt  pleasantly  in  the  dark: 

' '  One  can 't  call  yesterday 's  a  big  battle,  but  at  the  same 
time  it  was  a  tolerably  serious  engagement." 

The  senior  Captain  snorted. 

"Donner wetter!  one  would  think  so.  Nearly  fifteen 
hundred  prisoners,  and  Douay's  Division  obliged  to  aban- 
don its  camp  and  baggage.  The  Crown  Prince  has  begun 
well — one  expected  no  less!" 

Said  the  Adjutant: 

"I  shall  advise  the  Herr  Colonel  to  anounce  the  news 
to  the  regiment  at  roll-call  to-morrow.  It  will  make  a  good 
moral  impression  upon  those  who  are  new  to  Active 
Service,  when  they  realize  that  the  French  have  been 
trounced. ' ' 

Then  they  were  silent  a  moment,  but  one  felt  that  both 
were  crowing. 

We  know  what  had  happened.  Before  midday  the  Crown 
Prince  had  pounded  Douay's  Division  into  brickbats,  the 
brave  General  himself  was  dead,  the  town  of  Wissembourg 
had  fallen;  by  two  o'clock  the  mitrailleuse-batteries  on 
the  Geisburg  had  been  silenced,  and  the  Chateau  stormed 
and  won. 

The  men  of  the  Imperial  Army  in  Alsace  had  fought 
magnificently.  Red-capped,  swarthy  Turcos  in  baggy 
white  breeches,  Zouaves  and  French  infantrymen,  light 
blue  Bavarian  and  dark  blue  Prussian  uniforms,  with  what 
had  been  brave  men  inside  them,  lay  scattered  among  the 
hop-gardens  and  vineyards  on  the  mountain-side. 

Of  these  no  doubt  the  Adjutant  was  thinking  when  he 
threw  away  his  cigar-butt  and  said,  with  a  sigh  and  an  oath 
together : 

"Kreuzdonnerwetter!  one  does  not  win  victories  for 
nothing.  It  must  have  been  a  bloody  fight,  and  especially 
in  the  streets ;  you  understand  me  ?  The  French  fired  from 


338  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  windows,  and  from  the  roofs  of  the  houses.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  terrible  struggle  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet,  and  both 
sides  used  the  butt — liberally ! ' ' 

"The  butt  may  be  brutal,"  commented  the  senior  Cap- 
tain, clearing  his  throat  and  expectorating  copiously ;  ' '  but 
all  the  same  it  is  a  hellishly  useful  thing!" 

"Why  leave  your  enemy  brains  when  he  may  live  to 
plan  your  defeat  by  the  use  of  them  ? ' '  agreed  the  Adjutant. 
The  scabbard  of  his  sword  clinked,  as  he  moved,  against 
the  boulder,  and  the  sound  made  an  eavesdropper  go  goose- 
fleshy  all  over,  as  he  lay  prone  among  dry  bents  and 
bracken  in  the  blackness  on  the  farther  side.  Then  he 
heard  the  Captain  ask: 

"Did  the  Crown  Prince  continue  the  advance  to-day?" 
and  strained  his  ears  for  the  Staff  officer's  reply. 

"Undoubtedly!  Moltke's  telegram  from  the  King's 
Headquarters  at  Mainz  ran :  'Seek  out  and  fight  the  enemy 
wherever  you  may  find  him,'  and  Marshal  MacMahon  is 
said  to  be  concentrating  all  his  force  on  a  high  plateau  be- 
tween Froeschwiller  and  Eberbach,  west  of  the  Sauer  and 
the  Sulz.  The  bridges  have  been  broken — his  position  is 
an  exceptionally  strong  one.  ...  Of  course  you  know  the 
kind  of  ground ! ' ' 

"Open  ground,"  snorted  the  Captain,  "over  which  an 
assailant  must  pass  to  get  at  him.  Sapperlot!  don't  I  wish 
I  'd  had  the  chance  to-day ! ' ' 

"You  are  too  greedy,  Scheren,"  joked  the  Adjutant. 
"Ts't!  What  was  that?" 

Both  men  were  silent,  intently  listening.  For  the  eaves- 
dropper, titillated  to  madness  by  a  spear  of  seed-grass  that 
had  thrust  up  a  nostril,  had  given  a  smothered  sneeze. 
Now  on  the  point  of  discovery,  he  found  presence  of  mind 
sufficient  to  repeat  the  sneeze,  panting  doggishly,  whining 
and  scratching  among  the  fern.  .  .  . 

The  ruse  was  successful.    The  Adjutant  said,  laughingly : 

"It's  a  dog,  nosing  at  a  rat  or  rabbit-hole.  Under- 
Lieutenant  Brand 's  terrier  '  Nagler, '  perhaps. ' ' 

"Hie,  then,  boy!" 

"Here,  Nagler!" 

The  Captain  whistled,  the  other  man  advised  indiffer- 
ently : 

"Let  the  brute  alone — perhaps  the  rabbit's  a  French 
one!"  He  added,  "It  would  be  amusing  to  read  a  dog's 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  339 

Impressions  of  the  campaign.  What  time  is  it?  'Ten!' 
Very  well,  I  shall  go  and  turn  in.  You'll  do  the  same 
thing  if  you'll  take  my  advice." 

The  Captain  grunted  assent,  and  the  two  officers  clanked 
away  together,  while  P.  C.  Breagh  noiselessly  collected  his 
venerable  waterproof,  his  water-bottle,  and  knapsack,  and 
departed  in  search  of  a  more  distant  sleeping-place. 

But  when  he  found  it  in  a  dry  ditch  a  quarter-of-a-mile 
below  the  Mounted  Artillery  bivouac,  and  stretched  him- 
self out  to  sleep,  he  could  not.  .  .  .  His  head  rang  with 
the  news  that  would  presently  thrill  the  civilized  wrorld. 

First  blood  to  Germany.  .  .  .  Did  the  Doctor  know  ?  .  .  . 

That  genial  little  gentleman  had  prophesied  accurately. 
The  "meaty  bone"  of  early  and  accurate  information  had 
fallen  to  the  ' '  tyke  at  the  tail  of  the  Army  Corps. ' '  While 
the  prophet,  delayed  by  pumped-out  horses  and  recalcitrant 
grooms,  at  the  Lion  Inn  of  Neustadt,  knew  no  more  than 
that  the  heir  to  the  Prussian  Crown  was  over  the  frontier, 
and  was  reported  to  have  taken  Wissembourg  from  the 
French. 

That  dry  ditch  accommodated  a  complacent  lodger.  His 
misgivings  banished  by  one  stroke  of  fortune,  P.  C.  Breagh 
brooded  sleeplessly  over  the  Koh-i-noor  that  had  fallen 
to  him.  .  .  .  Though,  to  hold  such  a  jewel  and  know  one- 
self impotent  to  use  it,  that  was  the  verjuice  mingled  in 
the  cup  of  bliss. 

Without  funds  for  telegraphing — an  Editor  to  print 
one 's  letters — and  a  public  ready  to  read,  what  was  the  use 
of  information  ?  Stop !  What  was  that  the  more  authorita- 
tive of  the  two  officers  had  said? — the  one  who  had  given 
the  news  to  the  other  man?  "It  would  be  amusing  to  read 
a  dog's  impressions  of  the  campaign!  .  .  . 

Would  it?  Such  a  dog,  perhaps,  as  the  mongrel  that 
had  joined  the  green- jacketed  Saxon  infantry  regiment  at 
Bingen.  The  cur  the  compassionate  soldier  had  christened 
"Bang."  Lying  on  his  back,  pillowed  on  his  knapsack, 
staring  at  the  waning  moon,  the  boy  pondered.  Suppose 
one  wrote  one 's  letters  to  Knewbit  in  the  assumed  character 
of  Bang? 

The  idea  grew,  and  he  sat  up  to  review  its  possibilities. 
Something  soft  and  feathery  brushed  past  his  ear  as  he 
stirred.  An  owlet,  most  likely,  yet  I  prefer  to  believe  that 


340  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

it  may  have  been  the  wing  of  Inspiration,  touching  the 
head  destined  to  be  crowned  by  Fame. 

"Pages  from  the  Diary  of  'Bang,'  the  Battalion  Dog." 
That  should  be  the  title,  or  simply, ' '  The  Story  of  '  Bang. '  ' 
"Short  and  to  the  point,"  he  heard  Mr.  Knewbit  saying. 
And  Knewbit  .  .  . 

Here  was  day!  .  .  . 

Reveille  after  reveille  sounded,  shattering  his  train  of 
thought,  waking  the  hilly  echoes.  Under  how  strange  a 
sky  the  bugles  clamored,  the  bivouac  stopped  snoring; 
men  sat  up  on  dew-wet  cloaks  and  rubbed  their  eyes. 

The  cup  of  heaven  was  red  as  though  brimmed  with  blood 
new-drained  from  the  veins  of  heroes.  In  the  leftward 
hemisphere  looking  East,  Ursa  Major  swam  in  blood, 
blazing  with  white-hot  fierceness.  On  the  ensanguined 
South  the  Dog  cowered  as  though  in  terror.  And  like  a 
skeleton  arm,  the  Milky  Way  pointed  over  the  blood-dab- 
bled hill-crests  and  the  blood-tipped  pine-groves  from  the 
south-east,  West.  .  .  . 

Men's  faces  and  hands  were  crimsoned  by  reflections  cast 
from  that  portentous  sunrise,  the  dew-wet  grasses  were 
dyed  the  same  hue. 

They  broke  their  fast  on  their  black  bread  washed  down 
with  bitter  black  coffee.  In  the  pause  that  followed  the 
roll-call,  a  voice  spoke.  And  amid  deafening  cheers  the 
news  sprang  from  bearded  lip  to  lip. 

"Lucky  is  the  standard  that  flies  over  the  first-fought 
field ! ' '  says  the  proverb. 

How  those  Teutons  marched,  that  day  of  rain-pelts  and 
thunderstorms,  upheld  by  their  first  draft  of  the  strong 
wine  of  Success! 

At  Mayence,  Moltke  had  commented  to  his  Sovereign, 
with  his  keen  old  eyes  twinkling  with  joy: 

"Douay's  troops  were  preparing  their  evening  coffee 
when  the  Prince  with  his  four  Divisions  appeared  on  the 
heights  above  Schweigen.  The  Red  Breeches  thought  it 
was  a  promenade  militaire  in  the  Second  Empire  style, 
until  the  shells  began  to  plop  into  their  cooking-pots!" 

' '  Thanks  be  to  Heaven ! "  returned  King  William  piously, 
"our  artillery-fire  has  improved  since  the  Bohemian  cam- 
paign." 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  341 

"All  the  same,"  returned  the  "Warlock,  shaking  the  wise 
old  head  cased  in  the  auburn  scratch-wig,  ' '  their  musketry 
should  do  much  for  the  French.  For  the  chassepot  is 
quicker  in  loading  than  our  needle-gun,  and  spits  less, 
which  is  better  for  the  aim.  .  .  .  Then  our  needle-gun  has 
A  poor  trajectory  at  500  yards,  and  wounds  rather  than 
kills  outright.  While  the  chassepot  bullet, — driven  by  its 
huge  charge  of  powder — has  a  splendidly  flat  trajectory, 
and  flattening  out, — makes  a  magnificent  wound!  In  at 
the  chest — out  at  the  shoulder-blades!  .  .  .  The  man  has 
a  hole  in  him  you  can  see  the  landscape  through ! ' ' 

And  he  rubbed  his  withered  hands,  the  old  specialist  in 
slaughter.  While  Bismarck  said,  laughing,  to  his  cousin 
and  military  attache: 

"The  enthusiast  forgets  that  the  perforated  examples 
will  be  German.  .  .  .  Look  at  him!  Already  he  begins 
to  resemble  a  bird  of  prey.  Have  you  read  these  French 
newspapers?  The  King  has  laughed  heartily  over  them, 
but  they  must  horribly  irritate  the  Emperor.  Listen  to 
this,  from  the  Constitution-net:  'Prussia  continues  to  insult 
us  with  impunity,  when  the  Armies  of  the  Empire,  at  a 
word  from  their  Chief,  might  descend  like  three  crashing 
avalanches  upon  the  hosts  of  Germany.  Why  is  the  word 
not  uttered?  Why  is  the  massacre — ivith  the  rout  that 
must  inevitably  follow,  delayed  for  a  single  hour?' "  .  .  . 

The  Emperor  had  perused  the  leaders,  in  his  headquar- 
ters at  the  Prefecture  at  Metz.  His  eyes  seemed  opaque  as 
clouded  glass,  his  face  was  a  puffy  mask,  devoid  of  expres- 
sion, as  he  replied  to  the  hinted  condolences  of  a  sycophant 
upon  his  staff. 

"The  opinions  of  these  gentlemen  of  the  Press  were  not 
solicited.  They  are  free  to  criticize  me,  let  them  do  so. 
I  am  not  bound  to  divulge  to  them  my  plans. ' ' 

Alas !  vacillation,  hesitation,  and  delay  on  the  part  of  the 
Imperial  Commander-in-Chief  fatally  clogged  the  move- 
ments of  his  magnificent  Army.  He  did  not  put  in  an 
appearance  with  his  staff  at  headquarters  until  a  fortnight 
subsequent  to  the  Declaration  of  War.  A  week  later — 
and  no  Plan  of  Campaign  had  been  issued  to  his  generals. 
True,  he  had  demolished,  with  field-fire,  a  beer-shop  at  Saar- 
briick.  He  had  paraded  on  the  hills  with  Frossard's  Army 
Corps.  He  had  witnessed  the  evacuation  of  the  town  by 
its  tiny  garrison — had  withdrawn  his  advanced  posts  and 


342  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

gone  home  to  Metz  to  dine  and  telegraph  to  Paris  of  the 
"capture  of  the  heights"  and  the  "short  resistance  of  the 
Prussians ' ' ; — to  tell  of  the  cannon-balls  and  bullets  which 
fell  at  his  own  feet,  and  those  of  the  Prince  Imperial, ' '  who 
showed  admirable  coolness. "  "  Some  of  the  soldiers  wept, ' ' 
he  adds,  "beholding  him  so  calm.  ..." 

And  indeed,  though  one  takes  the  soldiers'  tears  with  a 
grain  of  salt,  the  spirited  bearing  of  the  boy  must  have 
cheered  the  sick  heart  of  his  father,  and  yet  thrust  another 
dagger  in  it,  too. 

Had  the  Imperial  Commander-in-Chief  any  plan,  one 
wonders.  .  .  .  Long  after  he  had  ceased  to  be  Emperor, 
a  pamphlet  was  published  at  Brussels,  which  is  generally 
accepted  as  the  work  of  the  pen  that  signed  the  Capitulation 
of  Sedan. 

"To  Marshals  MacMahon  and  Lebceuf  alone,  the  Emperor 
had  entrusted  his  scheme  of  warfare.  His  purpose  was — to 
mass  150,000  troops  at  Metz,  100,000  at  Strasbourg,  and 
50,000  at  the  Camp  of  Chalons.  The  concentration  of  the 
first  two  armies — one  on  the  Sarre,  and  the  other  on  the 
Rhine — did  not  reveal  the  purpose  of  the  Imperial  Com- 
mander-in-Chief, for  the  enemy  would  be  left  in  uncer- 
tainty as  to  whether  the  attack  would  be  made  against  the 
Rhenish  Provinces  or  the  Duchy\  of  Baden." 

Would  the  Warlock  have  long  remained  in  uncertainty? 
But  hear  the  pamphleteer: 

"As  soon  as  the  troops  should  have  been  concentrated  at 
the  points  indicated,  it  was  the  Emperor's  purpose  to  in- 
stantly unite  the  armies  of  Metz  and  Strasbourg;  and  at  the 
head  of  250,000  men,  to  cross  the  Rhine  at  Maxau,  compel 
the  Southern  States  of  Germany  to  observe  neutrality,  and 
hasten  to  encounter  the  Army  of  Prussia."  Later  on  oc- 
curs the  pathetic  complaint:  "//  one  could  only  know 
beforehand  exactly  where  the  enemy  was,  one's  plans  would 
"be  easy  to  carry  out!" 

Indeed,  the  dispositions  of  Moltke  were  made  with  baf- 
fling secrecy.  Even  as  the  Heathen  Chinee  accommodated 
card-packs  innumerable  in  his  ample  sleeves,  so  the  War- 
lock hid  the  twelve  Army  Corps  of  the  North  German 
Confederation,  with  the  Prussian  Guard  Corps,  the  Ba- 
varian Field  Army  and  the  Wiirttemberg  and  Baden  Di- 
visions, in  the  skirts  of  his  military  cloak.  .  .  .  When  the 
moment  came,  the  aged  conjuror  twitched  open  the  garment 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  343 

and  showed  them:  Steimnetz  with  the  First  Army  at 
Treves,  Prince  Frederick  Charles  with  the  Second  at 
Mayence,  the  Crown  Prince  with  the  Third  at  Landau. 

When  the  Three  Armies  rolled  on,  the  art  of  the  strate- 
gist covered  their  movements  with  a  baffling  veil  of  cavalry. 
That  immense,  well-organized  and  highly  mobilized  arm 
was  throwTi  well  forward  before  the  Germans  crossed  the 
frontier :  at  their  first  entry  into  France  they  came  in  con- 
tact with  French  troops.  A  day's  march  ahead  of  the 
Army  Corps'  advanced-guards,  Divisions  of  Uhlans, 
Dragoons  and  Hussars — (in  a  little  all  were  "Uhlans"  to 
the  terrified  French  peasants) — provided  for  the  security  of 
the  huge  infantry  bivouacs  behind  them ;  made  requisitions 
for  provisions,  fuel,  and  forage ;  rendered  railways  and 
telegraphs  useless — scouted  for  the  enemy's  positions — 
took  prisoner  or  shot  dispatch-bearers  and  patrol-riders — 
harassed  marches,  and  boldly  fired  into  camps.  Many  fell 
in  forays,  or  skirmishes,  many  were  those  accounted  for  by 
the  long-range  hitting  chassepot,  which  was  heartily  de- 
tested by  Prussia's  mounted  men. 

' '  If  I  had  not  been  called  to  Metz  to  attend  an  Imperial 
War-Council,"  Marshal  MacMahon  is  reported  to  have  said 
bitterly,  when  the  news  of  the  defeat  of  Wissembourg 
reached  him,  "this  blow  upon  the  south  would  not  have 
fallen.  My  Second  Division  would  still  be  left  to  guard 
the  opening  between  the  Vosges  and  the  Rhine." 

The  thunder  of  the  guns  of  Worth  add  their  comment 
upon  that  utterance. 

Over  the  head  of  the  town,  lying  at  the  bottom  of  a  fer- 
tile valley  patched  with  hop-gardens  and  vineyards,  and 
threaded  by  a  river,  was  waged  between  the  Marshal  with 
50,000  troops,  the  pick  and  flower  of  the  French  Army, 
and  "Unser  Fritz"  with  twice  the  number  of  men,  a  des- 
perate and  bloody  fight. 

The  French  on  the  bluffy  wooded  cliffs  that  are  the  foot- 
hills of  the  Vosges,  occupied,  as  strategists  have  declared, 
an  almost  unassailable  position.  But  the  fire  of  the  mitrail- 
leuses was  hampered  by  the  artillery  of  the  2d  Bavarians 
under  Hartmann,  that  seasoned  veteran,  who  had  fought 
at  Waterloo  in  1815  and  now  led  an  Army  Corps  against 
France  in  his  seventy -sixth  year.  Thus  the  Prussian  in- 
fantry crossed  the  Sauerbach  on  bridges  improvised  of 
planks  and  hop  poles ;  and  though  the  chassepot  proved  an. 


344  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

infinitely  deadlier  weapon  than  the  needle-gun,  the  general- 
ship of  Von  Kirchbach  and  Von  der  Tann, — in  command 
of  the  Prussian  4th  Division  and  5th  Corps,  backed  by  a 
division  of  the  llth  Corps, — forced  MacMahon's  hand. 

Outnumbered,  outflanked  and  disorganized,  with  the 
loss  of  9,000  men  killed,  5,000  taken  prisoners,  twenty 
pieces  of  artillery,  six  mitrailleuses,  and  two  eagles,  the 
Marshal  fled  by  the  way  of  Zabern,  under  cover  of  night, 
trailing  after  him  the  beaten  remnant  of  the  Army  of 
Strasbourg. 

The  Third  Army  of  Germany  had  lost  489  officers  and 
10,153  rank  and  file.  Before  night  of  the  7th  the  dead 
were  buried  in  great  trenches,  ,the  columns  of  the  Society 
of  the  Red  Cross,  the  Sisters  of  Mercy  and  Lutheran 
Deaconesses,  with  surgeons,  volunteers,  and  Army  ambu- 
lance-bearers, had  cleared  the  wounded  from  the  field. 

' '  Ah !  if  we  had  only  had  this  sort  of  thing  at  the  Alma 
and  at  Inkerman!"  a  grizzled  Zouave  sapper  growled  to 
one  of  the  ladies  of  the  Red  Cross.  ' '  I  was  wounded  there 
— sacred  name  of  a  pipe!  My  belt-buckle  was  carried  by 
a  shell-splinter  through  my  ceinture  into  my  stomach. 
This  very  buckle,  look  you,  that  I  wear  to-day!"  He 
added,  rubbing  the  locality  of  the  previous  casualty: 
"There  is  nothing  inside  there  now,  because  of  late  they 
have  not  fed  us,  or  our  chassepots.  How  the  devil  can 
men  kill  Prussians  without  soup  in  their  bellies  or  cartridges 
in  their  guns?" 

The  Zouave  spoke  truth.  It  was  a  half-equipped  and 
under-rationed  army  that  had  made  such  a  splendid  show 
at  Froeschwiller.  It  was  a  starving,  demoralized  remnant 
that  surged  and  weltered  through  the  passes  of  the  Vosges 
at  MacMahon's  flying  heels.  Cavalry  on  foot,  Zouaves 
riding  Artillery-horses,  mitrailleuse  corps  without  mitrail- 
leuses, baggage-wagons  crowded  with  men  of  a  dozen  dif- 
ferent regiments,  went  clanking  and  jolting  over  the  roads 
that  were  littered  with  discarded  chassepots,  bearing  wit- 
ness to  the  pitiable,  ghastly  disorder  of  the  retreat. 

The  hour  of  their  defeat  had  seen  Frossard  's  Army  Corps 
holding  with  Forton's  Cavalry  Brigade  the  heights  over 
Saarbriick,  simultaneously  attacked  by  the  7th  and  8th 
Corps  of  Unser  Fritz's  terrible  army,  and  driven  back  in 
confusion  and  with  slaughter,  toward  Metz. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  345 


XXXIX 

THE  HUGE  peacock-bubble  of  the  Third  Empire  was 
pricked  and  leaking  in  good  earnest.  Thenceforward  it 
was  to  shrink,  and  pale,  and  dwindle  to  its  inglorious  end. 

The  Emperor  must  have  known  its  days  were  numbered, 
when  those  wires  of  the  6th  reached  him.  On  the  7th  the 
news  of  Worth  electrified  Paris.  Can  you  hear  Jules 
Ferry  joyfully  exclaiming  to  the  father  of  Paul  Deroulede, 
"The  armies  of  the  Third  Napoleon  are  annihilated!  At 
last  there  dawns  a  day  of  hope  for  France!"  But  fierce, 
triumphant  voices  like  these  were  drowned  in  the  muffled 
sobs  of  mothers,  the  moans  of  wives  made  widows,  and  the 
wailing  of  children  now  fatherless.  Later,  and  as  though, 
to  enhance  the  bitterness  of  defeat,  lying  telegrams  were 
published  in  Paris,  announcing  that  the  Duke  of  Magenta 
had  retaken  Wissembourg,  captured  sixty  guns,  and  made 
25,000  prisoners.  Chief  among  these  unlucky  ones  figured 
the  Prussian  Crown  Prince,  who  in  an  access  of  despair 
had  shot  himself.  .  .  . 

For  some  hours  the  streets  and  boulevards  were  packed 
with  rejoicing  multitudes.  Cries  of  "Vive  I'Empereur," 
scarce  at  this  era  as  snowflakes  in  summer,  were  suddenly 
heard  again.  Flags  and  Chinese  lanterns  were  displayed 
from  every  window,  the  people  stopped  the  hansom-cab  in 
which  the  famous  Opera  tenor  Capoul  was  being  driven 
along  the  Place  de  la  Bourse,  and,  hoisting  their  idol  to  the 
top  of  a  stationary  omnibus,  compelled  him  to  chant  the 
"Marseillaise." 

When  the  Emperor's  sorrowful  dispatches  of  the  7th 
revealed  the  cruel  truth,  and  proclamations  signed  by  the 
Empress  and  the  Ministers  made  it  public,  rapture  gave 
place  to  frenzy  of  the  wildest.  Troops  of  cuirassiers  and 
mounted  Gardes  de  Paris, — bands  of  National  Guards, — 
companies  of  the  Line,  and  Marines  were  employed  to  clear 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  and  the  Places  de  1'Opera  and  Ven- 
dome,  of  rioters. 

The  Chambers  assembled  amid  tumult  indescribable. 
Ministers  were  insulted  on  their  way  to  attend  the  delibera- 
tions. "A  la  Frontiers!"  cried  the  huge  crowd,  thronging 
the  quay  before  the  Palace  of  the  Corps  Legislatif.  "Vive 
Rochefort!"  A  bas  les  Ministres!"  "Chassepots!" 


346  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Their  reiterated  demands  for  arms  could  be  heard  within 
the  Chamber.  Where,  when  M.  Schneider  mounted  the 
tribune  to  read  the  Imperial  Decree  of  Convocation,  the 
opening  formula :  "Napoleon,  by  the  Grace  of  God  and  the 
national  will,  Emperor  of  the  French, ' '  was  vigorously 
howled  down.  Ollivier,  the  unpopular  Head  of  the  Imperial 
Cabinet,  who  had  egged  on  the  war,  fared  no  better.  Later, 
the  fall  of  his  Ministry  was  greeted  with  salvo  upon  salvo 
of  enthusiastic  applause,  and  when  the  news  was  published 
all  Paris  went  mad  once  more  with  joy. 

While  the  moment  of  supreme  collapse  of  the  great  pea- 
cock bubble  was  coming  nearer,  the  Crown  Prince  of  Prus- 
sia was  hunting  MacMahon  through  the  defiles  of  the 
Vosges,  his  flying  cavalry  snapping  up  scores  of  wounded 
or  footsore  stragglers,  his  advance  batteries  of  light  artil- 
lery harassing  the  bleeding  flanks  of  the  fugitive.  The 
Second  and  First  Armies  were  moving  Metzward,  the  War- 
lock having  knowledge  that  the  Emperor's  main  Army,  the 
Imperial  Guard,  and  Bazaine's,  Ladmirault's  and  Fros- 
sard  's  Corps,  with  part  of  Canrobert  's,  were  concentrating 
there. 

The  Great  Bubble  was  sagging  pitifully.  The  weather 
was  wet  and  chilly,  the  Imperial  troops  not  yet  in  action 
were  disheartened  by  the  news  of  battles  lost.  Their  equip- 
ment was  incomplete,  their  new  boots  had  proved  to  be  of 
no  better  material  than  brown  paper  and  American  cloth. 
Worst  of  all,  the  Commissariat,  always  inadequate,  showed 
signs  of  caving  in.  And  the  blame  for  all  was  heaped  upon 
the  shoulders  of  the  Emperor,  whose  faith  in  his  fortunate 
star  had  quite  deserted  him ;  a  man  tormented  by  telegrams 
of  wifely  censure  and  wifely  advice  from  Paris;  dis- 
gruntled, if  ever  man  was ;  haunted  and  oppressed  by 
premonitions  of  impending  disaster;  sleepless,  shaky,  sick, 
and  prematurely  old. 

The  taking  of  the  fortresses  of  Bitche  and  Phalsbourg — 
memorable  by  reason  of  its  brave  Governor's  resolute  de- 
fense— the  seizure  of  the  undefended  City  of  Nancy,  the 
Zorn  Valley  railway  line,  Forbach  with  its  immense  mili- 
tary stores,  Sarreguemines,  and  other  garrison  towns  were 
lesser  shocks,  falling  on  a  mind  already  paralyzed.  Hasty 
decisions,  contradictory  orders,  had  emanated,  one  after  an- 
other, from  the  Headquarters.  He  was  confused  and  flur- 
ried, finding  his  good  brother  of  Prussia  so  near.  For  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  347 

"Warlock,  scenting  a  movement  of  French  troops  to  the 
rear,  had  crowned  the  uplands  eastward  of  Metz  with  the 
1st  and  7th  Corps  of  the  First  Army  of  Germany  under  the 
veteran  General  Steinmetz,  cavalry  well  to  the  fore  and 
outposts  skillfully  posted,  so  as  to  look  into  the  French  po- 
sition from  all  points  of  view,  while  the  Red  Prince  felt 
for  a  solid  footing  for  his  Second  Army  on  the  left  or 
French  bank  of  the  Moselle.  Meanwhile,  the  Crown  Prince, 
whose  clutches  Marshal  MacMahon  had  evaded  by  tak- 
ing a  vast  circuit  to  Chalons,  had  swept  round  and  was 
marching  northward  from  Vigneulles  toward  Metz. 

Ah !  in  what  a  hornet's  nest  the  Imperial  Commander-in- 
Chief  found  himself.  Almost  incapable  of  mental  effort,  he 
recognized,  like  Mr.  "Wilkins  Micawber, — whose  epistolary 
style  is  occasionally  suggested  by  his  Proclamations  and 
harangues, — that  something  had  to  be  done  at  once.  To 
shake  off  the  intolerable  burden  of  authority  was  the  most 
urgent  necessity.  He  transferred  it  to  the  youngest  of  his 
Marshals,  Bazaine. 

"You  will  get  us  out  of  this,  won't  you,  Marshal?" 
cried  an  officer  of  the  Imperial  Staff,  as  the  new  Com- 
mander-in-Chief  came  out  of  the  Prefecture. 

The  Marshal  had  left  his  Imperial  master  in  bed,  expect- 
ing answers  to  letters  he  had  penned  to  the  Emperor  of 
Austria  and  the  King  of  Italy,  soliciting  aid  and  alliance, 
which  these  potentates  did  not  bestow.  True  to  himself, 
he  could  not  quit  Metz  without  a  proclamation,  penned  in 
the  old  nourishing,  ambiguous  style: 

"Inhabitants  of  Metz.  In  leaving  you  to  oppose  the 
invading  enemy,  I  rely  upon  your  patriotism  to  defend  this 
great  city.  You  will  not  allow  the  foreigner  to  seize  this 
bulwark  of  France,  and  you  will  emulate  the  Army  in 
courage  and  devotion.  ...  I  hope  to  return  in  happier 
times  to  thank  you  for  your  noble  conduct." 

Then  he  quitted  the  place  with  his  son,  his  cousin  and 
his  personal  following  and  escort.  As  his  cortege  clattered 
through  the  streets  choked  with  soldiers,  guns,  provision- 
carts  and  baggage-wagons,  and  faces  of  contempt,  or  de- 
rision, or  hatred  turned  to  see,  did  he  hide  his  sick,  hu- 
miliated face  behind  the  green  silk  screen  of  the  carriage 
window?  How  did  he  answer  the  inevitable  questions  of 
his  son? 

A  prey  to  hideous  uncertainties,  for  the  new  Commander- 


348  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

in-Chief  had  suddenly  applied  to  be  superseded,  the  luck- 
less Emperor  spent  the  night  at  the  camp  at  Longeville, 
waking  upon  a  foggy  morning — if  he  could  be  said  to  sleep, 
who  never  slept — to  a  brisk  salute  of  Prussian  guns.  For 
a  patrol  of  Uhlans  with  a  half  battery  had  made,  during 
the  night,  a  bold  attempt  to  seize  upon  the  Imperial  person, 
and  being  foiled  within  an  ace  of  success,  had  retreated, 
plumping  a  shell  or  so  into  the  lines  from  the  German  side 
of  the  river.  And  while  these  hornets  were  being  repulsed 
with  heavy  metal,  the  muddy,  travel-stained  Army  of  the 
Ked  Prince  crossed  the  river  lower  down ;  the  little  episode 
described  having  diverted  attention  from  their  transit; 
effected,  even  as  in  a  jam  of  batteries,  battalions,  squad- 
rons, baggage  and  ammunition-trains,  the  French  retreat 
was  being  made. 

So  choked  were  the  roads  that  the  Emperor  and  his  suite 
with  the  Imperial  Guard  Escort  only  managed  to  struggle 
as  far  as  Gravelotte,  a  village  some  eight  miles  from  Metz, 
where  Bazaine  had  his  headquarters: 

' '  Gentlemen,  we  will  remain  here,  but  keep  the  baggage 
packed  ! ' '  had  been  the  Emperor 's  instructions  to  his  follow- 
ing upon  alighting  at  the  inn,  where  two  miserable  bed- 
rooms were  with  difficulty  obtained  for  himself  and  his 
son.  Prince  Napoleon  and  the  other  personages  of  the 
suite  found  harborage  at  various  cottages ;  the  lackeys  slept 
in  the  baggage-fourgons,  it  may  be  hazarded.  For  in  the 
morning  these  vehicles  and  their  attendants  were  found 
to  have  disappeared.  They  had  departed  for  Verdun, 
whither  their  master  was  now  to  follow  them.  Bazaine, 
who  could  not  shuffle  off  his  now  detested  responsibilities, 
was  summoned,  to  find  the  Imperial  carriage  standing  in 
readiness  before  the  tavern  door. 


XL 

ONE  can  see  the  splendid  bays,  clamping  their  bits  of 
solid  silver,  their  sleek  skins  and  their  costly  harness 
glittering  in  the  sunshine  that  had  driven  the  early  morning1 
fogs  away,  the  postilions  and  outriders  in  their  green  and 
gold  liveries  sitting  in  the  saddle,  the  landaus  of  the  suite 
drawn  up  at  the  distance  prescribed  by  etiquette. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  349 

Everybody  was  breakfastless,  save  the  Emperor,  his  son, 
and  cousin,  and  their  immediate  following.  The  regiment 
of  Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  the  gorgeous  Cent  Gardes  in  gold- 
crested,  crimson-tufted,  silver  helmets  with  flowing  white 
horsetails  and  caped  cloaks  of  azure,  were  empty  of  all  but 
air,  like  their  own  famous  kettledrums.  Their  horses  had 
cropped  a  little  grass  in  the  fields  during  the  night's 
bivouac,  and  were  better  off  than  their  riders,  by  one 
meal. 

The  young  Prince  Imperial  looked  sulky  and  discon- 
tented, but  neat  and  soldierlike  in  his  new  uniform  of  a 
subaltern  of  infantry.  Prince  Jerome  Napoleon,  the  portly 
M.  Plon-Plon  of  the  Crimean  War  caricatures,  wore  a 
cocked  hat  pulled  down  hard  over  his  eyes,  and  was  but- 
toned up  in  a  military  cloak. 

The  Emperor  had  suffered  in  the  night,  for  a  traveler 
who  had  slept  in  an  attic  above  his  bedroom  had  heard  him 
pacing  to  and  fro  and  groaning.  He  wore  a  black-caped, 
red-lined  waterproof  cloak  over  the  uniform  of  a  General 
of  Division ;  a  glimpse  of  the  Star  of  the  Legion  of  Honor 
fastened  on  his  breast  showed  as  he  raised  his  hand  to  throw 
away  the  butt  of  the  inseparable  cigarette,  and  set  his  neat 
little  polished  gold-spurred  boot  on  the  carriage-step,  and 
beckoned  with  a  small  white-kid-gloved  hand. 

Obeying  this  signal,  a  green-and-gold  equerry  and  a 
demure  elderly  valet  hoisted  him  respectfully  on  one  side, 
while  a  keen-eyed,  lean- jawed  young  man,  accurately  at- 
tired in  deep  black,  propped  him  scientifically  upon  the 
other.  We  know  this  deft  and  silent  personage  to  have 
been  a  brilliant  young  Paris  surgeon,  retained  about  the 
person  of  the  Emperor ;  a  specialist  whose  ministrations,  in 
dulling  unbearable  pain  with  subcutaneous  injections  of 
morphia,  and  combating  the  progress  of  disease  by  skilled 
surgical  treatment,  became  more  necessary  every  day. 

They  got  him  in.  The  sweat  was  starting  through  the 
rouge  upon  his  livid  face  as  he  sank  heavily  upon  the  seat 
of  the  carriage.  His  son  and  cousin  followed.  Bazaine, — 
who  was  accompanied  by  Canrobert  and  Bourbaki,  and  did 
not  dismount,  rode  up  to  receive  his  master's  farewells. 

He  did  not  entreat  again  to  be  relieved  of  the  supreme 
responsibility.  Perhaps  the  Emperor  imagined  that  he 
might.  For  he  put  out  his  hand  in  haste  and  shook  the 
Marshal's,  reiterating: 


350 

"All  will  go  well!  Excellently,  I  have  no  doubt  of  it! 
You  understand,  you  have  broken  the  spell." 

Of  ill-luck,  did  he  mean,  clinging  to  the  fatalist  whose 
Star  was  on  the  point  of  setting.  He  added : 

"I  go  to  Verdun  and  Chalons.  Put  yourself  upon  the 
road  for  Chalons  as  soon  as  possible.  .  .  .  May  you  be 
fortunate!  Au  revoir!  En  avant!" 

The  brigadier-general  in  charge  of  the  escort  gave  the 
word.  The  Advance  was  sounded,  the  Chasseurs  on  their 
gray  Arabs  dashed  onward,  riding  in  fours,  keeping  a  sharp 
lookout  for  Uhlans.  A  half-troop  of  Cent  Gardes  preceded 
the  Emperor's  carriage,  his  equerries  and  aides  and  those 
of  the  Prince 's  household  followed  on  their  empty,  chafing 
beasts.  Another  peloton  of  Cent  Gardes  were  succeeded 
by  three  Imperial  carriages  containing  the  surgeon,  secre- 
taries and  valets ;  grooms  followed  with  led  horses ;  and  the 
Empress's  regiment  of  Dragoons,  brass-helmeted,  black- 
plumed  warriors,  in  green  with  white  plastrons,  brought  up 
the  rear. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  they  started. 
Deep  defiles  rather  than  roads,  with  wooded,  precipitous 
banks,  stretch  between  Metz  and  Gravelotte.  By  the  time 
the  Imperial  cortege  had  extricated  itself  from  the  stray 
columns  and  batteries  choking  these,  and  the  cliffy  banks 
had  lowered  to  hedgerows,  it  was  six  o'clock  and  a  glori- 
ously sunny  morning. 

One  may  imagine,  as  the  landscape  broadened  and 
smoothed  like  a  human  face  relieved  from  carking  anxiety, 
the  young  Prince  Imperial  turning  in  his  seat,  and  looking 
back  upon  the  scene  he  was  unwillingly  quitting,  with  a 
scowl  of  resentment  and  dissatisfaction  that  changed  and 
aged  his  boyish  face. 

He  saw  the  white  tents  of  the  huge  camps  of  the  Imperial 
Divisions  snowing  over  a  vast  area  of  country  on  the  French 
side  of  the  river,  and  the  clotting  of  cavalry  and  infantry  in 
swarms  upon  the  roads,  where  vast  aggregations  of  baggage 
and  provisions  and  ambulance  wagons  impeded  their  pas- 
sage. He  saw  the  Imperial  Standard  break  out  above  the 
Tricolor  on  the  flagstaff  of  the  Fort  of  Plappeville,  signify- 
ing that  Bazaine  had  entered.  He  could  see  the  artillery- 
batteries  on  the  high  ground  at  Rezerieulles,  and  he  knew 
that  others  were  posted  behind  the  woods  of  Genivaux, 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  35* 

and  yet  others  near  the  quarries  of  Amanvilliers.  The 
glitter  of  steel  and  the  flutter  of  red  and  white  lance- 
pennons  told  of  the  Light  Cavalry  outposts  at  St.  Ruffine. 
And  sinister  moving  specks  upon  the  hill-crests  beyond  the 
river  above  St.  Barbe — and  others  moving  in  the  villages, 
with  darker,  bigger  patches  toward  Sarrebourg,  testified, 
like  the  gray-white  drifts  of  powder-smoke  that  came  down 
upon  the  northeast  breeze,  with  the  reduplicated  rattle  of 
musketry,  the  detonation  of  field-guns  and  the  yapping  of 
mitrailleuses — to  the  near,  active  presence  of  the  ancient, 
racial  foe. 

He  was  drawing  nearer,  always  nearer,  to  the  coveted 
key-city  of  the  Two  Kivers,  seated  within  her  ancient 
fortifications,  guarding  the  northeast  frontiers  of  France. 
He  wanted  Metz,  with  her  vast  modern  arsenal,  her  huge 
hospitals  and  military  colleges,  her  fifteen  bridges — (the 
railway-bridge  had  been  blown  up  by  Bazaine's  engineers 
on  the  night  before  last,  when  the  squadron  of  Uhlans, 
greatly  daring,  had  made  their  way  into  the  French  lines, 
with  the  project  of  seizing  upon  the  person  of  papa) — and 
her  glorious  Cathedral,  whose  vast  gray  bulk  was  now 
bathed  in  the  misty  golden  sunshine  of  a  perfect  autumn 
day. 

Soon,  soon,  those  indomitable  dark  blue  soldiers  would  be 
at  grips  with  Frenchmen  for  the  possession  of  Metz.  Oh  I 
not  to  be  able  to  fire  a  shot,  or  strike  a  blow  with  her  de- 
fenders, because  of  one's  pitiable  weakness  and  youth! 
Oh !  to  be  perpetually  guarded  and  protected  and  plucked 
from  the  very  possibility  of  danger,  because  one  happened 
to  be  Heir  to  the  Imperial  Throne. 

Why  had  the  Emperor  resigned  the  supreme  command 
of  the  Army?  There  had  been  reverses — does  a  Com- 
mander-in- Chief  give  up  for  that?  True,  he  was  not  well, 
but  the  First  Napoleon  had  fought  battles  and  won  them, 
in  spite  of  cramps  and  colic.  He  would  never  have  driven 
away  under  the  noses  of  King  "Wilhelm  and  Count  Bis- 
marck and  the  Prince  Commanders.  He  would  have  called 
the  nephew  who  could  commit  such  an  impair  as  that  a 
godichon.  He  would  have  said:  "To  the  devil  with  you, 
who  boast  yourself  of  my  blood!  A  Napoleon — and  not  a 
general!  You  might  have  proved  yourself  a  fighter,  at 
least!" 

The  soldiers  regarded  the  Emperor's  resignation  as  the 


352  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Great  Napoleon  would  have  done.  They  had  not  cried 
"Vive  I'Empereur!"  when  papa  had  driven  out  of  Metz. 
Upon  the  contrary,  they  had  maintained  silence,  scowling 
or  sneering  covertly.  To-day,  the  meanest  piou-piou  had 
presumed  to  wink  or  grin.  More,  voices  from  the  depths  of 
company-columns  had  called  out  horrible  insults;  things 
that  had  made  the  son's  teeth  set  and  his  fists  clench  with 
the  passionate  desire  to  thrash  the  offenders,  yet  had  not 
twitched  one  muscle  in  the  father's  impassive  face.  .  .  . 

"Why  do  you  look  back  so  often,  Louis?  "What  are  you 
thinking  about?" 

The  Emperor's  question  brought  the  young  head  round. 
He  muttered,  twisting  the  gold  knot  of  his  little  sword : 

"I  am  looking  at  the  Army,  and  at  Metz — and  at  those 
Uhlan  outposts.  And  I  want  to  know  why  we  are  going 
away — just  because  the  Prussians  are  coming?  Why  can- 
not we  stay — and  fight  ? ' ' 

The  diplomatic,  evasive  answer  came : 

"Because  for  the  present  it  is  more  prudent  that  we 
should  withdraw  ourselves." 

The  boy  shrugged,  almost  imperceptibly,  and  his  young 
face  took  on  an  expression  of  heavy  obstinacy,  bringing 
out,  quite  startlingly,  a  resemblance  to  the  sire.  He  mut- 
tered: 

"All  very  well.  .  .  .  But  it  isn't  nice  to — absquatulate !" 

The  slang  term  filer  might  be  rendered  as  above.  The 
Emperor's  gray  face  with  the  patches  of  rouge  on  the  flaccid 
cheeks  moved  not  a  muscle.  Turning  his  hunched  shoulders 
upon  the  scene  of  his  horrible  humiliations,  he  stared  with 
fixed  eyes  along  the  road  to  Verdun,  stretching  away  to  the 
west  between  its  bordering  poplars,  whose  long  blue  shad- 
ows— the  day  being  yet  young — barred  the  white  dust 
rather  suggestively. 

At  Etain,  where  the  cortege  halted  for  breakfast,  the 
Prince  had  a  much  nearer  view  of  those  ubiquitous  horse- 
men in  the  dark  blue  uniforms.  Indeed,  the  Emperor  and 
his  suite  barely  escaped  a  surprise,  and  the  escort  of  Cent 
Gardes,  who  were  here  replaced  by  some  of  MacMahon's 
Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  were  hotly  chased  and  sniped  at  on 
the  way  back  to,  camp. 

Through  the  journey  of  that  night,  performed  in  the 
cushionless  plank  seats  of  a  third-class  carriage,  his  suite 
being  accommodated  in  a  string  of  cattle-trucks,  of  what 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  353 

did  the  sleepless  Emperor  think  ?  "What  questions  occupied 
that  sick  and  sluggish  brain  ? 

The  question  of  returning  to  Paris,  the  refuge  he  longed 
for  and  yet  dreaded  inexpressibly.  The  question  as  to 
whether  the  Empress  Eegent  would  welcome  the  Emperor 
who  could  no  longer  rule  the  State,  and  what  kind  of  ova- 
tion the  people  would  extend  to  the  General  who  had  de- 
serted the  Army  of  Metz  before  the  advancing  hordes  of 
United  Germany. 

Would  not  Kebellion,  Anarchy  and  Revolution  rear  up 
their  hydra-heads  to  greet  the  Third  Napoleon,  reentering 
his  capital?  Would  his  reign  end  in  the  explosion  of  a 
bomb,  and  a  shower  of  torn  flesh  and  scattered  blood  upon 
the  paving-stones  ?  Would  his  son  ever  wear  the  Imperial 
crown,  won  by  bribery,  bloodshed,  fraud  and  trickery? 
Would  the  Church  forgive  the  rape  of  temporal  power? 
Would  Heaven  succor  one  who  had  defrauded  Her?  Was 
this  the  beginning  of  the  end? 

Lugubrious  doubts  like  these  and  many  others  haunted 
his  sleepless  pillow  in  the  Imperial  pavilion  of  the  camp  on 
the  dusty  plains  of  Champagne.  Dismantled  at  the  close 
of  the  October  maneuvers,  and  now  hastily  prepared  for 
the  Emperor's  reception,  the  place  was  damp,  dismal,  and 
cheerless,  as  such  places  usually  are. 

The  newly  levied  troops  were  showing  signs  of  insubor- 
dination; the  Gardes  Mobiles  from  Paris  were  in  open 
mutiny  against  their  generals.  The  great  camp  was  a 
wasp's  nest,  which  the  presence  of  the  Emperor  stirred  to 
frenzy;  the  lewd  songs  in  which  he  figured,  the  yells  of 
savage  laughter  greeting  obscene  jests  leveled  at  him  and 
his,  reached  him,  pacing  the  mildewed  carpets  underneath 
the  damp-stained  draperies  festooned  from  the  claws  of 
Imperial  eagles,  whose  gilding  was  tarnished  and  discol- 
ored, like  the  Imperial  central  crown. 

All  night  he  paced,  on  thorns.  With  the  dawn  of  day  he 
had  the  answer  to  his  questions.  From  the  Empress,  who 
wished  him  to  abdicate  that  she  might  reign  for  her  son; 
from  the  new  War  Minister,  a  creature  of  his  own  aggran- 
dizing, who  by  influencing  the  Empress,  who  detested  him, 
dreamed  of  becoming  another  Richelieu;  from  the  Prefect 
of  Police — who  indeed  brought  the  warning  in  person — 
came  a  triple  sentence  of  exile  for  the  sick,  dejected  man. 

Spewed  forth  again  upon  the  road  toward  the  northern 


354  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

frontier,  he  was  a  clog  upon  the  feet  of  the  army  that 
might,  by  a  movement  in  which  boldness  combined  with 
rapidity,  have  relieved  Bazaine  at  the  critical  moment  and 
changed  the  fate  of  France.  Thenceforth  he  was  to  be  a 
passive  witness,  rather  than  a  participator,  in  scene  after 
scene  of  horrible  disaster;  disgraces,  disillusions,  defeats, 
crowding  one  upon  the  other,  to  be  crowned  by  the  un- 
speakable catastrophe  of  Sedan. 


XLI 

THREE  hours  after  the  Emperor  had  driven  out  of  Grave- 
lotte  the  Red  Prince  had  blocked  the  direct  road  to  Verdun. 
The  First  Army  had  crossed  the  Moselle.  Moltke  and  the 
Royal  Headquarter  Staff  were  already  at  Pont  a  Mousson, 
the  Crown  Prince  was  marching  toward  Chalons. 

At  this  stage  of  the  game,  the  Warlock  gave  the  signal. 
Von  Redern  's  guns  opened  suddenly  on  the  French  cavalry 
camp  near  Vionville.  You  remember  the  squadrons  were 
watering :  Murat  's  Dragoons  stampeded  with  their  baggage- 
trains,  De  Gramont's  troopers  sent  in  a  volley  of  carbine- 
fire,  mounted  and  retired  in  less  haste.  This  was  the  open- 
ing figure  of  the  three  days  of  bloody  conflict  waged  in  the 
rural  tract  between  the  northern  edges  of  the  Bois  de  Vaux 
and  the  Forest  of  Jaumont.  The  French  call  it  the  ' '  Battle 
of  St.  Privat,"  the  Germans  the  battle  of  Gravelotte-St. 
Privat. 

The  Great  Headquarters  of  the  Prussian  Commander-in- 
Chief  were  at  the  riverside  town  of  Pont  a  Mousson,  some 
ten  miles  distant  from  the  war-theater — whose  stage  occu- 
pied some  six  square  miles  of  undulating,  wooded,  ravine- 
gashed  country-side. 

And  here,  his  possessing  genius,  or  demon,  prompting 
him,  the  tactics  of  Moltke  abruptly  changed. 

I  have  fancied  the  Warlock  getting  up  at  cockcrow  on 
the  day  of  Vionville, — he  had  a  little  folding  camp-bed  he 
always  slept  upon.  Undressed  to  shirt  and  drawers,  he 
would  roll  himself  in  a  gray-striped  blanket  which  did  not 
reveal  the  fact  when  it  needed  washing,  and  cover  himself 
on  chilly  nights  with  a  big,  shabby,  military  cloak. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  355 

Beside  the  bed,  with  the  extinguished  candle-lantern 
standing  on  a  corner  of  it,  was  the  little  portable  campaign- 
table,  covered  with  faded  green  baize.  His  maps  were 
spread  on  this,  and  an  Army  revolver  of  large  caliber  lay 
atop  of  them,  well  within  reach  of  its  owner's  practiced 
hand. 

He  sponged  his  old  face  and  sinewy  neck  economically  in 
a  basin  of  cold  water,  carefully  washed  his  hands,  rinsed  his 
mouth  and  put  on  a  clean  white  shirt.  A  white  drill  waist- 
coat went  on  under  the  old  red-faced  uniform  frock,  with 
the  distinctive  shoulder-cords  of  Chieftaincy  of  the  Great 
General  Staff  and  the  Order  of  Merit  dangling  from  the 
silver-gilt  swivel  at  the  collar.  Then  he  polished  his  bald 
head  with  his  silk  handkerchief,  reached  his  wig  from  the 
chest  of  drawers  and  assumed  it,  read  a  text  in  his  Lutheran 
Bible,  prayed  a  twenty-second  prayer  standing:  lighted  a 
thin,  dry,  ginger-colored  cigar,  such  as  his  soul  loved,  and 
sat  down  to  work  at  his  maps. 

Bismarck  might  well  have  likened  him  to  some  bird  of 
the  predatory  species.  With  the  rising  furrows  of  his  bald 
brow  hitching  up  his  wig,  and  his  clear  eyes,  lashless  with 
old  age,  crimson-rimmed  by  dint  of  fatigue  and  overstrain, 
his  fierce  hooked  beak  following  the  journey  of  his  withered 
claw  over  the  tough  cartridge-paper — one  can  imagine  him. 
very  like  an  eagle,  or  a  member  of  the  vulture-tribe. 

It  grew  lighter  as  he  worked  with  his  old  chronometer 
and  well-used  compasses  and  stumpy  pencils ;  and  the  little 
thumbed  table  of  distance-measures  to  which  he  sometimes 
referred.  He  finished  and  rang  his  handbell  for  his  orderly- 
servant;  chatted  with  his  Adjutant  and  secretary  as  he 
broke  his  fast  on  bread  and  black  coffee.  Then  at  a  great 
jingling  of  cavalry  bridles  and  stamping  of  iron  hoofs  upon 
the  cobblestones  below,  he  went  down,  carrying  his  rolled 
map-case,  mounted,  and  rode  away  with  his  following. 
,  The  sun  rising  had  found  him,  lean,  inscrutable  and 
silent,  on  the  ridge  above  Flavigny,  where  he  had  told 
Prince  Charles  and  Steinmetz,  Moltke  would  be  found  that 
day.  .  .  . 

He  had  met  and  primed  them  with  the  result  of  his 
calculations,  had  seen  a  fierce  engagement  from  his  coign 
of  observation.  By  three  noon,  he  was  back  at  Pont  a 
Mousson,  had  interviewed  the  King,  dined  frugally,  and 


356  THE    MAN,   QF,   IRON 

now  stood  chatting  with  the  Iron  Chancellor  upon  the 
steps  of  the  Mairie. 

Guns  were  muttering  in  the  distance  as  they  had  done  all 
day  at  intervals.  There  had  been  fighting,  he  answered 
mildly  when  questioned.  Quite  a  considerable  battle  one 
might  call  it.  The  villages  of  Flavigny  and  Vionville  were 
burning  as  he  spoke. 

The  potato-gardens  of  Flauville  were  thick-strewn  with 
corpses  of  French  and  German  foot-soldiers.  In  a  little, 
layer  upon  layer  of  dead  and  dying  men  and  horses  had 
been  piled  upon  these.  Necessity  knows  no  law ;  and  it  had 
been  found  necessary  to  interpose  Prussian  cavalry  between 
the  French  Artillery  and  exhausted  masses  of  German  in- 
fantry. Which  accounted  for  a  considerable  thinning  in 
the  ranks  of  Ranch's  Hussars. 

The  sacrifice  had  been  necessary.  He  told  himself  so  as 
he  stood  there  smoking.  His  high  forehead  was  quite  un- 
clouded as  he  returned  in  answer  to  some  reference  to 
MacMahon's  losses  at  Worth: 

"It  is  one  of  the  traditions  handed  down  from  the  days  of 
Murat  and  Kellerman  and  Lassalle — the  French  belief  in 
the  virtue  of  the  massed  cavalry  charge.  ..." 

The  Minister  to  whom  he  spoke  replied : 

"The  English  exploded  the  theory  at  Balaklava  sixteen 
years  ago,  by  their  magnificent  but  useless  sacrifice  of 
Cardigan's  Light  Brigade.  They  learned  then,  and  we  have 
profited  by  the  lesson  that  MacMahon  has  just  been  spanked 
for  forgetting — and  that  Your  Excellency  will  presently 
teach  Bazaine.  ..." 

The  great  strategist  cupped  his  long  chin  in  his  lean  hand, 
and  said  in  his  dry,  thoughtful  way : 

"Yes,  yes.  We  will  drub  this  precept  into  his  brain  at 
cost  of  his  breeches.  Regiments  of  mounted  men  serve 
admirably  for  the  protection  of  marching  Army  Corps — are 
priceless  for  reconnaissance,  outpost  and  patrol-work,  but 
when  they  are  thrown  against  vast  bodies  of  troops  armed 
with  the  modern  breech-loader,  their  use  is  unjustifiable, 
being  nil." 

"And  when  in  addition,  the  unlucky  horsemen  are 
charged  as  at  Worth,  over  hop-poles  and  tree-stumps,  open 
field-drains  and  shattered  garden  walls, ' '  said  the  Minister, 
"then  they  are  worse  than  useless,  I  should  add." 

The  Warlock's  thin-lipped  mouth  opened  in  a  silent  laugh 


357 

that  creased  his  lean  cheeks  and  displayed  the  gums  that 
fvere  all  but  toothless.  He  rubbed  his  hairless  chin  and 
fcaid: 

"Ay,  unless  from  the  point  of  view  of  that  farmer  of 
Schleswig-Holstein  who  said  as  our  troops  marched  by  his 
barn-yard :  '  Let  us  look  on  them  as  manure  for  next  year 's 
wheat!' ! 

The  Iron  Chancellor's  blue  eyes  hardened  with  sudden 
anger.  Imagine  him  in  his  great  muddy  jack-boots,  with 
cord  breeches  not  innocent  of  clay  and  soil,  the  black 
double-breasted  frock  with  pewter  buttons  and  yellow  collar 
and  cuff-facings,  the  white  cap  with  the  yellow  band  and 
the  long,  heavy,  steel-hilted  cavalry  sword,  puffing  at  a 
giant  cigar  as  he  stood  on  the  doorsteps  of  the  Mairie,  over 
Vvhose  door  drooped  the  Prussian  flag,  and  the  white  Hohen- 
zollern  pennon  with  the  Black  Eagle  and  the  gold  blazoning, 
showing,  like  the  bodyguard  of  Red  Dragoons  and  White 
Cuirassiers,  the  numerous  orderlies,  and  the  double  cordon 
of  sentries  placed  about  the  building,  that  there  lodged  the 
King.  While  the  Red  Prince's  headquarters  were  distin- 
guished in  similar  fashion  at  the  National  Bank  of  France. 

"I  have  not  forgotten!"  The  response  came  in  Bis- 
marck's grimmest  vein  of  humor.  "Nor  has  the  rascal 
either,  if  he  happens  to  be  alive  still.  Our  infantry  taught 
him  very  thoroughly  that  there  are  more  uses  than  one  for 
a  bundle  of  straw. ' ' 

' '  Some  of  our  German  Princes  have  mastered  that  lesson 
quite  recently,  Excellency,"  said  Count  Paul  Hatzfeldt, 
First  Secretary  of  the  ambulatory  Foreign  Office,  turning 
a  handsome,  humorous  face  upon  his  Chief.  "The  Grand 
Duke  of  Mecklenburg  slept  in  a  barn  at  the  last  halting- 
place,  and  Prince  Leopold  of  Bavaria  in  a  loft  over  a  stable 
yard,  where,  as  he  explained  afterward,  there  were  not  only 
mice,  but  rats!" 

"I  understand  His  Excellency  to  refer,"  said  Moltke, 
taking  a  pinch  of  stuff,  "to  the  Polish  method  of  flogging, 
which  is  to  tie  a  man  face-downward  on  a  truss  and  thrash 
him  to  a  jelly  with  green  birch-rods." 

"Precisely.  Only  not  having  birch  rods  'convenient'  as 
Lever's  Irishmen  would  say,"  returned  the  Chancellor, 
' '  our  fellows  used  their  belts — buckle-end  preferably.  Then 
they  pitched  the  farmer  on  his  own  dunghill,  and  left  him 
to  rot  there  for  the  land  in  spring." 


858  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

"Severe,  but  severe  lessons  are  best  remembered, "  said 
the  Warlock,  placidly.  "Thus  MacMahon  will  perhaps 
throw  no  more  regiments  of  cavalry  away!  As  for  our- 
selves, we  have  hardly  brought  that  arm  of  the  Service  to 
its  present  condition  of  usefulness  to  handle  it  wastefully. 
Military  science — true  military  science — does  not  allow  of 
undue  extravagance  in  the  sentient  material  of  war.  Nay, — 
it  will  never  be  said  of  me  that  I  wasted  blood  prodigally  !"• 
He  curved  his  long  thin  hand  about  his  large  and  beauti- 
fully shaped  ear,  and  added,  as  the  distant  detonations  of 
heavy  artillery  made  the  windows  rattle  in  their  sashes  and 
the  pavement  quake  underfoot.  "They  are  still  fighting 
south  and  west  of  Metz.  In  halt  an  hour,  if  the  firing  has 
not  abated,  I  am  going  to  ride  in  that  direction  with  the 
King." 

He  glanced  at  his  chronometer,  then  went  down  the  side 
steps,  and  strolled,  contentedly  smoking,  to  where  his  own 
charger  and  his  master's  were  waiting  in  charge  of  some 
orderlies  near  the  Royal  carriages  and  fourgons  that  occu- 
pied the  center  of  the  Market  Place.  While  Count  Hatz- 
feldt,  glancing  after  the  thin  figure,  shrugged  and  said  to 
his  Chief  in  an  undertone : 

"Heaven  send  that  by  this  time  to-morrow  we  may  not 
be  deploring  some  tremendous  holocaust  of  Prussian 
cavalry !  Do  not  ask  me  how  the  idea  suggested  itself.  ..." 

"Possibly," — the  Minister  slightly  moved  his  hand  to- 
ward a  string  of  country  gram-wagons,  crowded  with 
wounded,  and  drawn  by  farmers'  horses,  converging  from 
the  westward  boulevard  toward  the  Market  Place — "pos- 
sibly because  so  many  of  those  fellows  have  been  brought 
in  here  since  twelve  noon.  And  in  Moltke's  very  disclaimer 
of  blood-waste,  you  find  cause  of  suspicion.  In  that  case, 
our  greatest  strategist  would  be  like  the  spider,  who  agitates 
her  web  to  conceal  herself  before  she  has  even  been  seen. 
Moreover,  they — I  refer  to  our  wounded — have  been  in- 
fantry of  the  Third  Corps  chiefly,  nearly  all  Prussians  from 
the  Mark  of  Brandenburg.  The  French  prisoners  were 
mostly  horsemen;  Light  Blue  Lancers  and  Cuirassiers  of 
the  Guard  Imperial.  What  fellows  are  these  ? ' '  Under  his 
heavy  brows  he  scrutinized  the  approaching  train  of  suf- 
ferers, adding:  "H'm!  Marshal  Frossard's  chassepotiers 
have  taken  toll  of  Ranch's  Hussars  with  a  vengeance! 
Where  are  you  going,  Count,  in  such  haste?" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  359 

Halfway  down  the  steps  Hatzfeldt  halted,  dropping  his 
eyeglass  and  turning  round  an  astonished  face. 

"Going,  Excellency?  Why,  naturally,  to  speak  to  these 
wounded  cavalry  men.  My  wife  has  a  cousin,  a  captain  in 
the  Hussars  of  Rauch. " 

The  Chancellor  said,  bending  his  powerful  gaze  on  the 
handsome  face  of  the  diplomatic  dandy: 

"Let  me  counsel  you  to  quench  your  desire  for  informa- 
tion. The  King's  windows  are  overhead.  And  the  in- 
quiries natural  for  you  to  make  in  your  own  character  will 
be  suspected,  should  His  Majesty  observe  them — to  have 
been  prompted  by  me. ' '  He  showed  a  corner  of  the  sealed 
dispatch  he  had  thrust  into  his  pocket.  "You  recognize 
the  Queen's  handwriting  upon  this  envelope?  Augusta 
will  have  written  another  such  Jeremiad  to  her  spouse. 
Mercy  and  moderation,  piety  and  philanthropy  will  be  the 
headings  of  the  sermon  penned  on  my  own  sheets  of  letter- 
paper.  The  text  of  the  King's  will  be,  'Bismarck  is  alone 
to  Name!'  Fortunately  my  back  is  broad,  and  I  have  his 
entire  confidence.  .  .  .  But  if  he  once  suspected  me  of 
getting  what  the  Yankees  call  'cold  feet!'  ..." 

The  hand  that  held  the  cigar  indicated  a  stoppage  of  the 
foremost  wagon.  ' '  See !  Moltke  is  speaking  to  the  officer 
in  charge  of  the  convoy.  I  will  wager  you  a  case  of  cham- 
pagne that  his  mouth  is  being  corked  up.  A  wise  proceed- 
ing too!  For,  remember,  the  story  of  a  wounded  man  is 
painted  from  his  own  wounds — always  a  red  tale  of  dis- 
aster. How  can  it  be  otherwise  ?  In  the  heat  of  battle,  or 
perhaps  without  having  fired  one  shot,  or  ridden  one  charge 
— he  has  been  struck  down,  poor  wretch !  and  carried,  bleed- 
ing, from  the  field.  .  .  .  Has  it  occurred  to  Your  Excellency 
that  those  guns  are  drawing  nearer  ? ' ' 

The  query  was  addressed  to  Moltke,  who  had  returned, 
leaving  the  wagon-train  to  jolt  with  its  doleful  load  in  the 
direction  where  the  Flag  of  the  Geneva  Cross,  hanging  from 
doors  and  windows,  announced  the  location  of  temporary 
hospitals. 

The  expert  listened  as  distant  crashes  of  volley-firing 
were  answered  by  the  hyena-yapping  of  mitrailleuses,  and 
answered,  pointing  to  the  weather-vane  on  the  tower  of  the 
Market  Hall: 

"Your  Excellency  is  wrong.  The  breeze  has  altered  its 
direction.  It  was  northerly,  and  is  now  blowing  directly 


360 

from  the  west.  Yet  if  the  action  should  assume  grave 
proportions,  it  may  prove  necessary  to  shift  Headquarters 
to  some  village  further  afield." 

"Heaven  forbid!"  murmured  Count  Hatzfeldt,  expres- 
sively raising  his  fine  eyebrows,  "when  one  is  able  to  get  a 
decent  dinner,  and  a  daily  bath  at  one's  hotel!  ..." 

"Heaven  generally  ordains,  through  the  mouth  of  Your 
Excellency,  an  exodus,"  said  the  Chancellor,  laughing, 
"when  a  comfortable  bed  falls  to  my  lot.  At  Herny  my 
couch  had  to  be  lengthened  with  chairs  and  carriage- 
cushions,  and  these  kept  parting  company  all  the  night 
long.  My  feet  were  on  the  floor  when  I  awakened  in  the 
morning, — literally  at  cockcrow — for  my  window  opened 
upon  the  dunghill  where  the  lord  of  the  poultry-yard 
sounded  his  reveille.  Now  here  I  am  accommodated  in 
quite  respectable  fashion;  in  a  little  red  creeper-covered 
house  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Raugraf,  and  three  of  the 
Councillors  are  stowed  under  the  same  roof  with  me." 

"While  I,"  said  the  Warlock,  "have  my  quarters  at  a 
cleanly  bakery,  where  there  is  quite  an  excellent  piano,  by 
the  way.  So  that,  to-night,  unless  Fate  order  otherwise,  I 
shall  hear  my  nephew  Henry  von  Burt  sing  some  of  my 
favorite  songs.  He  is  in  voice  for  the  first  time  since  his 
attack  of  sore  throat.  The  King  has  been  much  pleased 
with  his  rendering  of  Herder's  'Volkslieder'  and  'Die 
Blumen'  of  Heine,  which  doubtless  Your  Excellency 
knows. ' ' 

"I  am  acquainted  with  the  song  you  mention.  Or  I 
was,"  returned  the  Chancellor,  "in  my  salad  days.  They 
are  over  for  me,  unluckily!  .  .  .  Only  Your  Excellency 
possesses  the  secret  of  perpetual  youth." 

And  he  turned  aside  to  receive  a  bulky  sealed  packet  of 
dispatches  from  a  green- jacketed  Royal  Courier,  who 
had  just  driven  into  the  Market  Place  in  a  farmer's  gig, 
and  now  got  down,  tossing  a  fee  to  the  scowling  driver  of 
the  muddy,  panting  roadster.  While  Moltke,  stood  smiling 
and  humming  with  characteristic  untunefulness  a  stave  of 
the  tender,  sentimental  ballad: 

"//  they  Tcnew  it,  the  little  flowers, 
How  she  wounded  this  bleeding  heart, 
They  would  weep  with  me  in  bright  dew-showers, 
Healing,  healing  its  anguished  smart!" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  361 

Said  the  Minister  in  an  undertone  to  Hatzfeldt,  as  be 
transferred  to  his  keeping  the  bulky  sealed  envelope  re- 
ceived from  the  courier: 

"Let  his  Excellency  sing  only  loud  enough,  and  neither 
Steinmetz  nor  the  Red  Prince  will  be  able  to  prevent  the 
music-loving  Frenchmen  from  retiring  upon  Verdun." 

He  had  not  meant  the  pungent  jest  to  reach  the  ear  of 
the  great  strategist.  But  Moltke  glanced  round  and  an- 
swered mildly,  if  with  a  narrowing  of  his  wrinkled  eyelids, 
and  a  sardonic  twist  of  his  thin,  dry  lips : 

"Then  all  the  more  surely  should  we  surround  and 
annihilate  them.  My  second  plan  is  usually  stronger  than 
my  first.  And  I  have  already  issued  instructions  to  Prince 
Frederick  Charles  and  General  Steinmetz,  indicating  the 
course  they  are  to  follow  should  Bazaine  pierce  our  left 
wing.  Mean-while  let  us  listen  to  this  fellow's  singing.  It 
may  please  Your  Excellency  better  than  mine ! ' ' 

The  arrival,  a  Captain  of  Dragoons  of  the  Prussian 
Guard,  acting  as  aide-de-camp  upon  the  staff  of  Steinmetz, 
had  just  galloped  into  Pont  a  Mousson,  accompanied  by  an 
escort  of  half  a  dozen  troopers  on  blown  horses,  and  had 
little  breath  left  even  for  speech.  But  when  he  threw  him- 
self from  his  reeking  beast,  the  dispatch  he  took  from  his 
belt-pouch  and  handed  to  the  Chief  of  the  Great  Staff  told 
of  a  huge  expenditure  of  ' '  the  sentient  material  of  war. ' ' 

'  At  noon  of  the  day,  looking  from  his  point  of  observation 
on  the  high  ground  between  the  Bois  des  Ognons  and  Grave- 
lotte,  short-legged,  fiery-tempered  Steinmetz  had  seen  what 
seemed  a  weak  spot  in  the  French  position.  Under  cannon, 
mitrailleuse  and  chassepot-fire  he  had  ordered  several  bat- 
teries of  the  7th  Corps  and  Von  Hartmann's  Division  of 
Cavalry  to  cross  the  Gravelotte  defile  and  plant  themselves 
on  the  slopes  south  of  the  road.  Death  had  harvested  redly 
from  the  extravagant  movement.  The  slaughter  that  en- 
sued had  shaken  even  the  men  who  carried  the  needle-gun, 
their  huge  columns  were  giving  ground.  General  Stein- 
metz and  his  staff  were  under  heavy  fire.  Only  the  Prussian 
field-batteries,  served  and  trained  by  gunner-sharpshooters, 
kept  the  German  right  wing  from  caving  in. 

Heavy  news,  one  would  suppose,  yet  the  Warlock  read 
the  dispatch  to  his  master  with  as  placid  an  expression  as 
though  he  were  at  that  moment  seated  beside  the  baker's 


362  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

excellent  piano,  listening  to  the  tender  warblings  of  the 
melodious  Henry  von  Burt. 

"Steinmetz  is  over  ardent,  it  may  be,  yet  it  is  what  I 
should  have  done,  had  I  been  in  his  place,"  he  said  in 
answer  to  some  perturbed  exclamation  of  King  Wilhelm. 
"Only,  perhaps,"  he  fingered  his  long  chin  thoughtfully, 
"I  should  have  done  it  in  a  different  way.  He  is  supported 
by  now.  Stiilpnagel  will  have  thrown  his  Division  forward 
and  gripped  the  woods  and  heights  upon  the  French  left. 
Your  Majesty  will  see  a  change  in  our  favor  by  the  time 
we  have  reached  the  ground!" 

"Your  Excellency  should  be  there  now  and  I  with  you. 
Pray  order  the  horses ! ' '  urged  the  agitated  King. 

"They  are  waiting,  sire!"  said  the  Warlock,  cool,  calm, 
and  inscrutable  as  ever.  In  fact,  he  hummed  another  bar 
or  two  of  the  plaintive  ballad  about  the  weeping  flowers  as 
he  followed  his  Royal  master  downstairs  to  the  door,  and 
the  War  Minister,  Von  Roon,  who  had  been  hastily  sent  for, 
rode  up  with  his  staff  as  the  King  mounted  his  steadiest 
charger,  a  powerful  black  horse. 

"The  Federal  Chancellor,  Count  von  Bismarck  Schon- 
hausen,  begs  permission  to  accompany  your  Majesty!"  said 
Hatzfeldt,  gracefully  approaching  as  the  orderly  of  the 
Body-guard  resigned  the  bridle-rein. 

He  said  to  himself  as  he  returned  with  the  graciously 
accorded  permission  to  where  the  Minister  waited  by  the  big 
brown  mare  that  was  held  by  an  orderly  of  Cuirassiers: 

"How  perfect  is  his  discretion!  How  completely  he 
hides  the  iron  grip  of  power  under  the  velvet  glove  of 
diplomacy!  Roon  is  the  King's  quartermaster-sergeant, 
Moltke  is  his  calculating  machine,  Bismarck  is  his  ruler — 
but  he  will  always  seem  his  slave!  Wherever  the  King 
goes — on  journeys,  shooting  excursions,  visits  to  watering- 
places — he  is  always  at  his  elbow;  he  rides  with  him  to 
maneuvers,  and  reviews  and  parades.  Since  the  War  began 
— and  at  cost  of  what  exertion,  mental  and  bodily,  no  one 
understands  better  than  I  do ! — he  has  never  left  his  master 
alone  for  long  enough  to  further  the  intrigues  and  influ- 
ence of  other  men.  .  .  .  Every  battle-field  the  King  looks 
on  will  be  seen  through  the  Chancellor's  eyes.  For  this 
War  is  his  War — and  he  knows  it !  ...  Here  come  gallop- 
ing the  Royalties  and  Serene  Highnesses,  rabid  to  see  some 


363 

real  fighting.  .  .  .  Bismarck  calls  them  the  Tinsel  Rabble, 
— if  only  they  knew ! ' ' 

And  Count  Paul,  smiling  in  his  gently  satirical  fashion, 
strode  back  to  his  quarters  to  pen  to  his  young,  pretty,  and 
exceedingly  coquettish  Countess,  a  marital  letter  full  of 
tender  expressions  and  requests  for  lots  more  cigarettes. 
"While  their  Highnesses  and  Mightinesses  of  the  Royal  Suite 
pranced  away  in  the  wake  of  the  King  and  his  three  great 
servants,  without  the  slightest  idea  that  the  Chancellor 
who  rode  on  William's  left  hand  held  them  in  such  con- 
tempt. 

The  wounded  men  sitting  or  lying  on  hay  in  the  grain- 
carts  at  the  hospital  door  looked  up  as  the  Great  Head- 
quarter Staff  rode  by  and  gave  a  shaky  Hoch !  of  greeting. 
Heads  of  dressers,  nurses,  Knights  of  St.  John,  and  surgeons 
appeared  at  windows  from  which  projected  the  Flag  with 
the  Red  Cross.  While  a  long  train  of  haggard  French 
prisoners,  halted  before  the  porch  of  the  church  that  had 
been  converted  into  a  temporary  prison,  stared  with  lack- 
luster eyes  over  the  bowls  of  cabbage-soup  and  the  huge 
hunches  of  bread  that  had  been  distributed  among  them 
by  pitying  ladies;  and  a  battalion  of  little  black-a- vised, 
green-coated  Saxon  soldiers  who  had  marched  in  dead-beat 
and  were  dozing  on  straw  under  the  Market  Hall,  lifted 
their  heads  from  their  knapsacks,  saying:  "There  goes 
Moltke  with  his  King,  and  the  Big  Pomeranian.  Some- 
thing is  up  out  yonder ! ' '  and  rolled  over  to  sleep  again.  .  .  . 

The  inhabitants  and  tradespeople  of  Pont  a  Mousson  were 
too  crushed  to  make  any  audible  comments.  "Within  a 
fortnight  they  had  had  twice  to  feed  and  quarter  a  French 
Division.  Now  here,  as  it  seemed,  was  the  whole  Prussian 
Army  poured  out  upon  them. 

They  were  dumb  and  stupefied  in  the  Babel  of  foreign 
dialects.  They  could  make  no  headway  against  the  flood. 
Everywhere  were  loud-voiced  Intendants  making  requisi- 
tions and  giving  orders;  officers  and  quartermaster-ser- 
ge.ants  shouting  for  rooms,  provender  and  stabling;  the 
men,  like  the  officers,  insatiable  in  demands  for  meat,  bread, 
forage,  tobacco,  flour  and  wine,  liberal  in  oaths  and  blows 
to  those  who  could  not  satisfy  their  needs. 

Tradesmen  in  gutted  shops  swore  in  whispers  over 
basketsful  of  dirty  little  nickel  coins  with  (to  them)  inde- 


364  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

cipherable  inscriptions — all  they  had  to  show  in  return  for 
one  or  two  thousand  francs'  worth  of  stock.  To  grumble 
brought  retribution,  swift,  sharp  and  merciless,  on  the 
head  of  the  grumbler.  To  resist  meant  death.  Therefore 
they  would  be  silent  until  the  invader  should  have  passed 
on. 

But  when  the  wearers  of  the  muddy  blue  uniforms  and 
the  riders  of  the  muddy,  well-fed  horses  did  pass,  fresh 
hosts  came  swarming  after  them.  There  seemed  no  end  to 
the  brown-faced  men  in  the  loathed  blue  uniform.  .  .  . 

"Are  there  more  to  come?"  those  of  them  who  under- 
stood French — and  many  did — were  asked  timidly,  and 
they  answered:  "Naturally.  We  are  only  the  Advance. 
To  keep  the  roads  by  which  we  have  passed  open,  and  to 
guard  the  telegraph-wires  we  have  left  behind  us  there  will 
be  very  many  more  required!" 

Germany  was  being  emptied  into  France 's  lap,  it  seemed 
to  the  bewildered  peasants  leaning  against  the  walls  of 
their  cottages  or  peering  from  the  doorways,  as  had  done 
the  peasants  of  Alsace-Lorraine.  They,  like  them,  were 
ruined,  their  crops  devastated  by  cataclysms  of  armed  hu- 
manity, their  cellars  emptied,  their  frugal  stores  devoured. 

' '  But  where  are  we  to  find  food  for  all  these,  we  who  had 
fared  badly  enough  before  they  came?  And  who  will  pay 
us  for  what  they  have  not  paid  for,  or  give  cash  for  this 
stuff  called  money  that  they  have  left  behind?  Will  it  be 
the  King  or  the  Emperor  ? ' '  some  haggard  man  or  woman, 
reckless  with  despair  and  misery,  would  demand  with  fran- 
tic gestures.  "And  how  shall  we  feed  our  children  when 
they  leave  us  nothing?  How  live  at  all  when  they  live 
upon  us  ? " 

They  asked  this  less  often  when  the  Flag  with  the  Geneva 
Cross  appeared  above  roofs  and  thrust  out  of  windows  of 
buildings  appropriated  as  hospitals,  and  when  long  trains 
of  German  ambulance- wagons  and  hay-carts  full  of 
wounded  men  in  blue  uniforms  began  to  pass  by,  as  well 
as  piteous  processions  of  French  wTounded  and  French 
prisoners.  .  .  . 

"You  see,  they  die!"  they  presently  began  to  tell  each 
other.  "Frenchmen  are  being  killed  like  Hies  out  yonder 
where  you  hear  the  cannon,  but  not  Frenchmen  only. 
These  too,  die.  .  .  .  MacMahon  has  failed  us  and  the  cursed 
Emperor  has  run  away  for  fear  of  Bismarck,  and  Bazaine 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  365 

may  prove  a  rotten  staff  for  France  to  lean  on.  But  if  our 
generals  have  forgotten  how  to  lead,  the  Army  of  France 
has  not  forgotten  how  to  fight,  and  thousands  upon  thou- 
sands of  Prussians  have  been  killed  since  the  beginning  of 
the  "War.  They  dig  their  great  trenches  so  quickly  and 
bury  the  slain  in  such  haste  that  the  greatness  of  their 
losses  will  never  be  really  known.  "When  they  would  hide 
them  more  completely,  they  heap  up  corpses  in  farmers' 
barns,  and  pile  the  farmers'  straw  and  hay  and  faggots 
about  them,  and  pour  on  petroleum  and  tar  and  set  fire  to 
it — and  thus  their  dead  are  consumed  to  ashes — and  some- 
times the  yet  living  with  the  dead ! ' ' 

As  at  Paris,  spy-fever  raged  in  cities,  towns  and  villages, 
while  the  armies  of  the  invader  plowed  bleeding  furrows 
in  the  flank  of  prostrate  France.  For  the  Prussian  Secret 
Intelligence  Department  had  its  emissaries  everywhere. 
Hotels,  public  bureaus,  railway  stations,  shops,  offices,  even 
clubs,  had  harbored  them  unknowingly.  Now  they  cropped 
up  on  all  sides,  speaking  French  with  the  Gallic  accent, 
their  German  brains  full  of  neatly  pigeon-holed  and  dock- 
eted information,  ready  to  place  themselves  at  the  disposal 
of  their  friends.  Hence,  patriotic  Frenchmen,  favored  by 
chance  or  heredity  with  blue  eyes,  fair  hair,  ruddy  com- 
plexions and  the  advantage  as  to  inches  over  their  neigh- 
bors, found  themselves  cold-shouldered  by  their  intimates 
and  subjected  to  unpleasantly  suspicious  scrutiny  when 
consuming  refreshment  in  cafes  and  restaurants,  or  strol- 
ling with  their  acquaintances  on  public  boulevards. 

English  artists  attached  to  illustrated  newspapers,  special 
correspondents,  handicapped  by  blonde  whiskers  and  an 
i  imperfect  acquaintance  with  the  French  language,  found 
themselves  in  many  a  tight  place.  "Mort  aux  espions!" 
is  not  a  cheering  cry  when  some  thousands  of  red-hot 
throats  are  uttering  it,  and  half  a  dozen  soldiers  or  gen- 
darmes form  the  only  barrier  between  the  unlucky  suspects 
and  the  furious  mob. 

XLII 

A  MUD-BEDAUBED  nondescript  who  toiled  at  the  heels  of  the 
Great  Headquarter  Staff  upon  a  huge  velocipede  of  the  big- 
wheeled,  bone-shaker  type  prevalent  at  that  remote  period, 


366  THE    MAN    OF    IRON" 

met  plenty  of  scowling  glances  from  groups  of  peasants 
gathered  at  the  corners  of  villages  and  listening  by  the 
wayside.  Even  on  territory  occupied  by  German  troops, 
it  was  not  safe  for  lagging  soldiers  to  drop  behind  upon 
the  march.  To  enter  roadside  taverns  or  farmhouses  with 
a  comrade  was  imprudent,  to  venture  in  alone  was  perilous,, 
the  sight  of  the  German  uniform,  the  sound  of  the  Teu- 
tonic gutturals,  were  so  fiercely  abhorred.  Of  the  reason 
for  this  loathing  the  Englishman  was  not  ignorant.  March- 
ing with  the  infantry  of  the  German  army,  he  had  followed 
where  the  Uhlans  had  passed. 

He  had  slept,  the  night  before  the  Army  of  the  Red 
Prince  had  crossed  the  river,  in  a  little  deserted  country 
chateau, — an  ideal  honeymoon  nest  for  lovers,  standing  in  a 
high-walled  garden  full  of  fruit-trees  and  tangled  roses 
in  the  middle  of  a  sloping  meadow  on  the  banks  of  the 
Moselle. 

The  butt  of  some  Prussian  soldier's  rifle  had  served  for 
key  to  the  locked  door  in  the  high  garden-wall.  Those  who 
had  gone  before  had  stripped  the  bushes  and  espaliers. 
The  house  had  been  entered,  and  the  dainty  silk-upholstered 
drawing-room  chairs  and  sofas  had  been  dragged  out  into 
the  garden.  The  piano — a  tiny  rosewood  bijou — probably 
a  wedding  present — and  the  absurd  little  billiard-table  with 
which  Monsieur  had  disported  himself,  stood  crookedly  upon 
the  gravel ;  a  long  tear  in  the  green  cloth  of  the  one ;  prints 
of  tumblers,  marks  of  greasy  fingers  marring  the  shiny 
veneer  of  the  other.  Bottles  that  had  contained  Cham- 
pagne and  Moselle — butts  of  cigars,  empty  tobacco-papers 
and  match-boxes  were  scattered  everywhere — over  gravel, 
and  grass-plot  and  the  once  trim  garden-beds.  An  im- 
promptu ca/e-concert  had  evidently  formed  a  feature  of  the 
bivouac. 

P.  C.  Breagh  had  slept  in  a  charming  bedroom,  under 
rosebud-chintz  curtains  looped  with  silken  ropes,  having 
carved  wooden  Cupids,  painted  pink,  instead  of  tassels. 
The  bed  was  not  as  luxurious  as  it  might  have  been,  because 
the  blankets  and  sheets  had  been  carried  off.  Opening  his 
eyes  in  the  gray  of  morning  he  had  seen  himself  as  he  lay 
reflected  in  a  long  cheval-glass,  and  failed,  for  the  moment, 
to  recognize  in  the  bronzed,  shaggy,  unclean  tatterdemalion 
therein  reflected  the  young  Englishman  of  respectable  ap- 
pearance who  had  interviewed  the  German  States'  Chan- 
cellor in  the  Wilhelm-strasse. 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  367 

He  was  not  alone  in  the  room,  that  was  the  next  discovery. 
A  woman,  young  and  swarthy,  dressed  in  the  quaint  cos- 
tume of  the  country,  stood  upon  the  other  side  of  the  bed, 
with  a  kitchen  chopper  in  her  lifted  right  hand.  He  took 
in  the  chopper  at  a  glance,  and  promptly  rolled  off  the  bed 
upon  the  side  facing  the  friendly  cheval-glass,  and  stood 
glowering  at  the  black-eyed  girl. 

' '  I  have  startled  Monsieur  ?    A  thousand  apologies ! ' ' 

She  forced  a  smile  with  her  curtsey  and  backed  toward 
the  door.  P.  C.  Breagh  explained  in  his  French  that  he 
was  no  robber  but  a  harmless  traveler,  and  that  she  need 
not  be  alarmed. 

" Monsieur  is  very  kind!"  Her  chopper-hand  hidden 
under  her  apron,  she  explained  that  she  had  served  as 
cook  in  the  establishment.  Upon  the  news  that  M.  de  Bis- 
marck was  coming,  tout  a  coup,  Monsieur  and  Madame 
had  gone  away  together  to  Paris.  They  were  noble  and 
very  amiable,  but  old,  old,  and  feeble.  .  .  .  They  had  left 
the  little  chateau  in  her  care.  .  .  . 

"Mademoiselle  is  not  easily  frightened?"  P.  C.  Breagh 
tinted. 

Said  the  black-eyed,  modestly: 

"I  am  Angele — nothing  of  Mademoiselle.  A  peasant — 
like  my  father,  who  was  gardener  for  Monsieur  and 
Madame.  ...  I  was  alone  here  when  the  Prussian  horse- 
men came,  breaking  the  doors  and  shutters.  .  .  .  Every- 
thing was  spoiled,  or  taken,  wine,  linen,  the  fowls  in  the 
poultry-run.  Destitution,  ruin  everywhere!  ..." 

She  accentuated  her  tale  of  loss  by  heavings  of  the  bosom, 
shrugs  of  the  fine  shoulders,  dramatic  gestures. 

"Then  my  father  returned  and  found  .  .  .  No  matter! 
Both  he  and  I  should  have  been  silent  and  endured  every- 
thing. ...  It  was  not  wise,  Monsieur,  that  the  old  man 
should  have  struck  a  Prussian,  even  for  my  sake.  For  then 
he  was  beaten.  "Whenever  I  shut  my  eyes,  I  see  it.  ... 
Therefore  I  have  vowed  not  to  sleep  again  until.  .  .  ." 
She  opened  her  eyes  wide,  and  smiled,  rather  grimly,  then 
changed  the  subject  with  a  wave  of  the  unchoppered  and 
visible  hand.  Was  Monsieur  hungry?  By  searching,  a 
crust  of  bread  might  be  found  in  some  cupboard,  an  egg  or 
two — laid  by  one  of  the  abducted  hens  in  some  private  cor- 
ner— a  pinch  of  coffee  and  sugar  sufficient  for  Monsieur ! 

"I  should  be  glad  of  it.  But — when  you  are  in  such 
trouble  it  seems  unfair/'  protested  Monsieur.  He  added, 


868  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

reverting  to  the  language  of  the  country,  that  he  would  be 
happy  to  pay  for  the  dejeuner. 

"But  no!  A  meal  for  a  bird! — Monsieur  and  Madame 
will  never"  miss  it!"  and  Angele  curtseyed  herself  away, 
with  forced  smiles. 

Left  alone,  P.  C.  Breagh  bolted  the  door  and  finding 
water  in  the  bedroom  jugs,  and  scented  soap  upon  the 
washstand,  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  a  comprehensive  wash, 
drying  himself,  in  the  absence  of  towels,  upon  a  pillow-case. 
A  pot  of  cold-cream,  tinted  a  delicate  pink  and  bearing  the 
label  of  Piesse  and  Lubin,  he  found,  and  anointed  his  blis- 
tered feet  therewith,  and  not  without  pangs  of  conscience — 
tore  up  the  pillow-case  and  bandaged  them.  He  would  pay 
the  girl  for  the  damage  done  to  her  master's  property,  he 
told  himself. 

He  combed  his  shock  of  dusty  hair  with  a  tortoise-shell 
comb  he  picked  up  from  the  carpet,  and  went  downstairs, 
knapsack  in  hand.  It  was  four  o'clock.  The  dusty,  foot- 
print and  wheel-marked  highway  beyond  the  broken  door 
in  the  garden-wall  was  strangely  bare  and  lonely.  The 
battalion  he  had  marched  with  had  bivouacked  on  the  other 
side  of  the  village.  The  troops  that  would  presently  follow 
were  not  yet  upon  the  road. 

The  girl  cried  out  that  Monsieur's  breakfast  was  ready. 
It  had  been  laid,  looking  quite  tempting,  on  one  of  the  little 
inlaid  tables  that  stood  upon  the  tiny  lawn.  A  truncheon 
of  bread,  fairly  new,  a  pat  of  butter,  two  eggs,  and  a  bowl 
of  fragrant,  steaming  milk  and  coffee — such  a  meal  as 
P.  C.  Breagh  had  not  enjoyed  for  many  a  day. 

He  begged  Angele  to  share.  She  replied  with  a  graceful 
wave  of  abnegation  that  she  had  already  eaten.  P.  C. 
Breagh  expressed  regret,  muttered  his  old  Rockhampton 
grace  and  savagely  fell  to. 

"Monsieur  is  Catholic?  ..." 

The  movement  of  his  hand,  making  the  sacred  Sign,  had 
not  escaped  her.  He  nodded,  with  his  mouth  full,  and 
Angele  turned  pale  under  her  swarthy  skin.  Her  guest 
vigorously  beheaded  an  egg  and  reached  for  the  coffee- 
bowl.  The  expression  of  the  girl's  eyes,  as  he  lifted  it  to 
his  mouth,  brought  something  back  to  him.  He  sipped 
cautiously — recognized  the  French  equivalent  for  English 
rat-poison — spat  forth  what  he  had  taken,  with  a  hideous 
grimace,  and  poured  the  deadly  stuff  out  upon  the  ground. 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  369 

Then  lie  got  up  and  looked  for  Angele,  whose  white- 
frilled  cap,  crimson  bodice,  and  striped  stuff  petticoat  had 
vanished  round  the  corner  of  the  little  hen-house.  He  could 
hear  the  klop-klop  of  her  varnished  cow-leather  clogs  re- 
ceding along  paths  unknown. 

Said  P.  C.  Breagh,  speaking  with  mouth  awry,  for  the 
intense  bitterness  of  the  alkaloid  had  dried  up  tongue  and 
palate : 

"I'd  like  to  follow  that  girl  and  shake  her.  But  more 
than  likely  her  sweetheart  and  male  relatives  are  lurking 
in  the  neighborhood  with  pitchforks,  to  speed  the  unwel- 
come guest." 

He  went  back  to  the  breakfast-table,  but  the  glamour 
had  faded  from  the  banquet,  and  the  leathery  dryness  of 
mouth  and  throat  foiled  him  in  the  effort  to  finish  the  egg 
he  had  begun.  He  pocketed  the  other,  abandoned  the  bread 
and  butter  as  unreliable,  strapped  on  his  dusty  knapsack, 
and  was  hobbling  away  upon  the  sticks  that  had  lately 
served  him  as  crutches,  when  he  caught  sight  of  an  obvi- 
ously new  coffin  of  thin  tarred  planking,  on  the  gravel  near 
the  conservatory  door.  It  bore  a  cross  and  an  inscription 
roughly  scrawled  in  letters  of  white  paint : 


t      ' 


JOSEPH   MARIE   MEUNIEE, 

AGED   80. 

KILLED  BY  THE  PRUSSIANS, 
AUGUST,    1870. 


R.I.P. 

And  then,  with  a  stiffening  of  every  muscle  and  a  cold 
and  deadly  sinking  at  the  heart,  the  English  boy  realized 
that  Angele 's  father  had  been  murdered,  and  knew  what 
had  been  the  unendurable  injury  that  had  provoked  the 
man  of  eighty  to  strike  in  his  daughter's  defense.  Next 


370  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

instant  a  gun  banged,  but  the  charge  of  slugs  that  had 
been  meant  to  lodge  in  P.  C.  Breagh's  cerebellum  merely 
smashed  the  conservatory  glass  and  peppered  the  walls  and 
trees.  The  intended  recipient  of  these  favors  had  previ- 
ously been  lame.  Now,  regardless  of  blisters  and  skin 
cracks,  he  cast  away  his  improvised  crutches,  darted  down 
the  garden-path,  nipped  through  the  shattered  door  that 
hung  upon  one  twisted  hinge,  and  ran  for  dear  life. 

Thenceafter  our  young  friend  did  not  stray  too  far  from 
the  column  he  temporarily  marched  with.  The  secret  of 
those  haggard  eyes  and  scowling  looks  was  clear  to  him 
now.  And  the  discovery  of  a  giant  velocipede  with  the 
solid  rubber  tires  of  the  period  and  a  front  wheel  of  four 
feet  in  diameter  abandoned  in  a  ditch,  presently  enabled 
him — previously  schooled  by  Mr.  Tickling  in  the  manage- 
ment of  a  machine  of  similar  construction  to  outpace  the 
Ked  Prince's  marching  battalions;  and — upon  highways, 
keep  abreast  of  his  flying  cavalry. 

Now,  hugely  daring,  he  pounded  along  in  the  wake  of  the 
Great  Headquarter  Staff,  guided  by  the  whipping  flicker 
of  the  black  and  white  lance-pennons  of  the  Red  Uhlans 
bringing  up  the  rear. 

There  were  troops  upon  the  road.  .  .  .  One  or  two  stray 
batteries  of  artillery,  and  part  of  an  Engineer  Corps  going 
the  same  way,  halted  to  give  a  cheer  for  the  King.  But 
the  galloping  dispatch-bearers  with  their  guards  of  troop- 
ers, bound  for  Pont  a  Mousson,  meeting  the  Great  Staff  on 
the  way,  turned  back  with  it,  adding  to  the  clouds  of  dust 
in  its  wake. 

The  Doctor  had  promised  P.  C.  Breagh  plenty  of  raw- 
head  and  bloody-bones  whether  he  marched  with  the  Ad- 
vance or  remained  at  the  rear.  The  prophecy  had  been 
verified.  He  had  not  yet  seen  a  battle  or  even  a  battle- 
field. But  thousands  of  wounded  men,  displaying  every 
sickening  mutilation  that  shot  and  shell  and  steel  can 
inflict  upon  the  human  body ;  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
prisoners,  gaunt  with  fatigue,  hunger  and  misery,  had 
passed  in  an  almost  unending  panorama  before  his  sickened, 
pitying  eyes.  Ruined  chateaux,  farms  and  churches,  crops 
destroyed  or  rotting  in  the  ground  ungarnered,  villages 
razed  or  burned,  towns  battered  out  of  shape,  and  fortifica- 
tions breached  by  heavy  gunnery,  were  to  become  sights  of 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  371 

common  occurrence  as  he  traveled  the  long  red  road  that 
was  to  lead  him  home  at  last. 

•  Now  he  rode  and  odd  lines  of  songs,  comic  or  tender, 
fragments  of  Fleet  Street  talk,  brain-pictures  of  things  seen 
or  persons  remembered  passed  through  his  mind  as  he 
pedaled  between  long  lines  of  roadside  poplars,  whitening 
in  the  hot  breeze  that  carried  the  scorching  dust  along  in 
clouds. 

The  face  of  the  peasant  girl  who  had  tried  to  poison  him. 
By  George!  if  Mrs.  Rousby  or  Miss  Marriott  or  Mrs. 
Vezin  could  have  seen  her  fierce,  gleaming  eyes,  and  her 
heavy  black  eyebrows  lifted  at  the  outer  corners,  and  the 
way  a  white  canine  tooth  had  nipped  her  red  underlip.  .  .  . 
The  voice  of  Mr.  Knewbit  barking,  "Avoid  Sham  Techni- 
cality and  Sentimental  Slumgullion, "  the  well-bred  voice 
of  Valverden  dealing  the  unforgotten  snub.  The  fortune 
told  him  by  the  gipsy  woman  on  Waterloo  Bridge  after 
that  unforgettable  January  night 's  vigil :  ' '  Yer  '11  travel  a 
long  road  and  a  bloody  road;  and  yer'll  tramp  it  with  the 
one  yer  love,  and  never  know  it,  until  the  end,  when  tute 
is  jasing.  ..." 

"When  tute  is  jasing"  meant  "When  thou  art  going" 
he  had  been  told  so  by  a  man  who  knew  a  bit  of  Romany. 
His  imagination  made  a  grasshopper-leap  of  years  to  the 
death-bed  of  a  celebrated  War  Correspondent. — a  grim, 
bronzed  man  who  had  followed  his  arduous  calling  in  many 
quarters  of  the  world,  and  had  earned  much  kudos  and  a 
whole  chestful  of  decorations,  but  had  never  married,  and 
was  understood  to  look  with  coldness  upon  the  loveliest 
women,  his  heart  having  been  irrevocably  given  in  earlier 
days.  Juliette — still  young,  and  ah!  how  exquisite  in 
maturity — Juliette  in  widow's  weeds,  would  hasten  to  the 
moribund 's  side  and  place  her  little  hand  in  his,  gaunt  and 
damp  with  approaching  death.  She  would  hear  his  story 
of  faithful,  hopeless  passion,  and  close  his  eyelids  for  the 
last  long  sleep.  And  standing  by  his  pillow,  looking  pity- 
ingly at  the  dead  face,  she  would  realize  that  she  loved — 
too  late.  .  .  . 

He  sniffed  and  gulped  as  the  tears  stung  his  smarting 
eyelids,  so  moving  was  the  picture  of  that  death-bed  scene. 

A  picture  of  the  King  of  Prussia  as  he  had  seen  him. 


372  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

sitting  at  the  open  window  of  his  lodgings  at  the  Mairie 
of  Pont  a  Mousson  next  came  up,  with  faces  of  market- 
people  and  street-boys  gaping  round-eyed  at  Le  Eoi  de  la, 
Prusse,  who  nursed  his  clean-shaven  chin  and  stared  un- 
winkingly  before  him.  Again,  the  old  man,  pale,  square- 
shouldered,  capped  and  tightly-buttoned,  riding  through 
the  market-place  with  his  Iron  Chancellor  by  his  side. 

"Wiry,  hawk-eyed  Moltke  and  saturnine,  shaggy-browed 
Roon  clattered  upon  the  heels  of  them,  but  P.  C.  Breagh 
had  had  eyes  only  for  the  great  soldierly  figure  that  be- 
strode the  big  brown  mare. 

Did  he  not  owe  his  life  to  the  well-shaped  hand  that 
had  rested  on  the  thigh  of  the  brown  mare's  rider,  as  the 
Minister  bent  to  speak  to  the  King? 

No  common  bond  of  confidence  and  friendship  seemed  to 
unite  the  master  of  seventy-three  and  the  man  of  fifty-five. 
The  hard,  somewhat  vulpine  face  of  the  Hohenzollern,  with 
its  drooping,  aquiline  nose,  narrow  light  hazel  eyes,  curled 
white  mustache,  precise,  tight-lipped  mouth  and  rounded 
chin  projecting  between  the  brushed  back  white  whiskers, 
had  been  all  alight  with  interest,  and  warm  with  kindliness. 

This  is  what  the  Man  of  Iron  had  said  with  his  small 
square  teeth  showing  laughingly  under  the  heavy  hair- 
brake,  and  his  fierce,  prominent  blue  eyes  sparkling  with 
humor  and  fun : 

"The  final  scenes  of  melodrama  are  always  the  most 
strenuous.  Your  Majesty  must  regard  the  ridge  over 
Flavigny  as  your  Royal  box  on  the  Grand  Tier,  the  occasion 
as  a  farewell  performance  of  the  French  Empire — played 
for  the  benefit  of  United  Germany,  before  the  whole 
world!" 

Flavigny  was  a  village.  .  .  .  But  the  flickering  black- 
and-white  pennons  that  tipped  the  dust-cloud  ahead  were 
slowing.  .  .  .  Three  battalions  of  infantry,  each  with  its 
band  playing  gaily  at  its  head,  the  bronzed,  healthy-look- 
ing, white-powdered  men  marching  eight  abreast,  had  halted 
and  front-faced  as  the  word  of  command  followed  the 
sound  of  the  Great  Staff  trumpeter: 

"Clear  the  way!  Clear  the  way!  Here  conies  the  King!" 

And  now  the  scorching  air  vibrated  with  their  vigorous 
cheering  as  the  King  cantered  by  and  was  gone  with  a 
shout  and  a  wave  of  the  hand. 

"Our  old  one  takes  dust  and  sun,  saddle-blisters  and 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  373 

short  commons  like  any  old  trooper!"  P.  C.  Breagh  heard 
a  Lieutenant  say  to  a  subaltern  as  the  dusty  ranks  half- 
wheeled  and  fell  into  step  once  more.  "He's  a  precisian 
too.  .  .  .  Zum  Beispiel,  he  called  to  a  man  in  Vidler's 
company  that  he  had  got  his  'needier'  on  the  wrong 
shoulder.  Now  that's  another  thing  I  like  in  the  old 
man!  .  .  ." 

' '  The  Field  Marshal  is  taking  the  Great  Headquarters  to 
where  it  will  be  hellishly  risky,"  a  Captain  with  Staff 
shoulder-cords  was  saying  to  another,  as  a  new  outbreak 
of  cannon  and  mitrailleuse-fire  caused  his  horse  to  start 
and  rear.  He  added:  "They  were  hard  at  it  at  Mars  la 
Tour,  Vionville  and  Rezonville  all  day  yesterday:  the 
5th  Division  were  in  action  all  round  Moltke  as  he  stood 
on  the  high  ridge  above  Flavigny.  .  .  .  To-day  our  7th 
and  10th  are  fighting  between  Gravelotte  and  St.  Hubert, 
where  the  French  have  the  devil's  own  array  of  battery- 
emplacements  and  rifle-pits — our  guards  are  at  Doncourt, 
our  9th  and  8th  corps  are  at  Verneville  and  Amanvilliers. 
Now  the  fighting  seems  to  have  rolled  down  nearer  the 
river.  I  have  certainly  heard  cavalry  trumpets  sounding 
the  charge,  and  volleys  of  musketry — French,  I  judge! — 
coming  from  that  direction.  I  should  judge  that.  .  .  ." 

"Bazaine  must  have  turned  the  handle  in  too  much  of 
a  hurry!"  retorted  the  junior,  who  enjoyed  a  regimental 
reputation  for  humor,  and  a  volley  of  laughter  rattled 
along  the  marching  files,  now  breasting  a  steep  and  gravelly 
hill,  half-way  up  which  the  rider  of  the  giant-wheeled 
velocipede  had  been  compelled  to  dismount. 

P.  C.  Breagh  had  seen,  reproduced  from  the  Charivari  in 
all  the  German  illustrated  papers,  the  famous  caricature  of 
Cham,  over  which  King  Wilhelm's  brown-faced  infantry- 
men were  grinning  as  they  climbed  the  hill.  Who  does  not 
remember  the  Count  de  Noe's  memorable  presentment  of 
the  field  of  war  dotted  with  defunct  Prussians,  and  the 
French  mitrailleuse-gunner  in  the  foreground  who  ex- 
claims in  astonishment:  "Sapristi!  the  battle  is  over.  I 
must  have  turned  the  handle  too  fast ! ' ' 

But  more  than  the  sardonic  jest  of  Cham,  the  Captain's 
reference  to  the  nearness  of  a  possible  action  interested  the 
would-be  spectator  of  a  battlefield.  The  wiry,  sun-bronzed 
young  man  in  the  broken  boots  and  the  dusty  brown  Nor- 
folk jacket,  now  pushing  the  solid-tired  giant- wheel  up  a 


374  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

steep  and  lung-testing  hill  which  the  bearers  of  the  needle- 
gun  took  in  a  canter,  had  seen  war-casualties  in  appalling 
numbers,  but  he  had  not  yet  beheld  War. 

And  now  sharp  bugles  and  piercing  trumpets  were 
clamoring  of  War  all  round  one.  The  musketry  that  one 
could  hear  at  Pont  a  Mousson  clattered  in  volleys  among 
the  neighboring  hills.  The  deep  booming  of  heavy  field- 
batteries  persistently  answered.  Every  now  and  then  the 
ear  was  violently  assaulted  by  the  hideous  hyena-yapping 
of  the  mitrailleuse. 

These  breasting  hills,  these  deep-cupped  valleys  walled 
and  ramparted  with  wood-crested  hill-ranges,  cut  up  the 
honest  battle  into  a  dozen  skirmishes.  Oh!  for  an  open 
campaign  and  a  vantage  on  some  breezy  hill-top  whence 
one  might  see,  as  the  King  was  seeing  with  Moltke  and  his 
Chancellor  from  the  ridge  above  Flavigny! 


XLIII 

THE  RIDGE  above  Flavigny  seemed  farther  off  and  more  in- 
accessible than  the  Great  Atlas.  One  must  get  off  the 
highroad  to  some  elevated  bit  of  ground,  consult  the  Doc- 
tor's map,  and  use  the  Chancellor's  binoculars.  Here  was 
a  broad  track,  green  with  grass  grown  over  ancient  wheel- 
ruts,  leading  off  upon  the  left  near  the  crest  of  the  hill. 

The  grass-road  led  to  a  stone  quarry  evidently  long  aban- 
doned. Skirting  the  quarry,  P.  C.  Breagh  began  to  climb 
the  grassy  scarp  of  the  hill.  It  grew  steeper,  and  presently 
he  awakened  to  the  difficulties  of  mountaineering  with  a 
velocipede,  and  hid  away,  with  the  intention  of  retrieving  it 
later,  his  stolen  giant- wheel  in  a  clump  of  whins.  Alas! 
its  bones,  like  those  of  many  a  sentient  charger,  were  to 
rust  in  rains  and  blister  in  suns  upon  that  hillside  of  the 
Meurthe  Department  for  many  and  many  a  year. 

But  not  knowing  this,  P.  C.  Breagh  continued  climbing. 
The  ridgy  backbone  of  turf-jacketed  rock  proved  a  natural 
buttress  rising  to  a  towering  platform  sparsely  grassed, 
tufted  with  thorn  and  furze-bushes,  stunted  pines  and 
dwarfy  oak-trees,  all  mossy  of  stem  and  bending  to  the 
southwest. 

The   afternoon  sunshine  was  mellow  rather  than  hot. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  375 

The  pure  dustless  air  was  fragrant  with  hill-thyme  and  the 
meadow-sweet.  The  autumn-tinted  woods  were  golden,  the 
hills  bathed  in  clear  blue  air.  The  short  herbage  clothing 
the  steep  was  warm,  smelling  like  the  clean  hide  of  some 
great  grass-feeding  animal.  But  for  the  restless  bickering 
of  trumpets  and  bugles,  and  the  hellish  noise  that  men  with 
guns  were  making,  it  would  have  been  sweet  to  be  upon  the 
hillside  alone  with  God. 

There  was  a  great  view  from  the  summit  of  the  colossal 
limestone.  .  .  .  You  could  see  that  bone  of  contention,  the 
road  leading  to  Verdun,  stretching  away  southwestward,  a 
dusty-white  ribbon  between  its  lines  of  whitening  poplars, 
over  the  tops  of  three  thick  patches  of  rusty-golden  wood- 
land, and  the  bushy  uplands  above  Gravelotte  and  the 
church  spire  of  Verneville. 

Dark  blue  Prussian  columns  showed  on  the  grassy  slopes 
traversed  by  the  road  that  ran  from  Ars  to  Bagneux. 
Near  the  Quarries  of  Rezerieulles  was  a  huge  French  bat- 
tery served  by  red-legged  artillerymen,  who  ran  about  like 
ants.  But  one  could  only  guess  at  the  fact  that  Germany 
and  the  Bad  Neighbor  were  locked  in  the  death-grips  over 
six  miles  square  of  battle-ground,  the  breasting  plumps 
of  trees  and  towering  bush-clad  ridges  hid  so  much  away. 

Ah !  but  the  din  was  hellish !  The  woods  vomited  fire. 
White  balloons  that  meant  shrapnel-shells  described  arcs 
against  the  hot  blue  sky,  crossing  and  recrossing  between 
Rezonville  and  Gravelotte.  When  they  fell  upon  the  slip- 
pery grass  slopes  they  exploded  with  fearful  crashes,  or 
became  black  .balls  that  rolled  merrily  a  while  and  then  lay 
quiet.  In  the  grass  near  them  were  shapeless  lumps  and 
masses,  red  and  blue,  and  dark  blue ;  and  things  with  stiff 
legs  sticking  up  grotesquely, — the  human  and  equine  debris 
of  the  morning 's  fighting  and  the  battle  of  the  previous  day. 
The  soft  westerly  breeze  brought  an  ugly  taint  upon  it — 
less  loathsome,  but  more  horrible  than  the  stench  coming 
from  the  huge  crowded  camps  of  French  about  St.  Quentin 
and  Plappeville  and  Les  Carrieres  and  St.  Eloy.  . 

Two  great  nations  at  each  other's  throats  and  God's 
image  being  shattered  everywhere.  .  .  .  Blizzards  of  Lead 
and  Iron,  Steel  and  Fire  raging  over  six  miles  square  of 
ground.  Rivers  of  blood  being  poured  out,  and  yet,  in 
spite  of  the  terrific  din  of  War,  the  insects  and  birds 
and  beasts  went  about  their  usual  business.  The  shrill 


376  THE    MAN    OF   IRON 

laugh  of  the  green  woodpecker  sounded  in  the  copses, 
the  jackdaws  were  gossiping  as  they  darted  in  and  out  of 
the  clefts  of  the  gray  rock.  Two  magpies  were  feeding  a 
late-hatched  fledgling  among  the  dwarfy  oak-scrub.  Rab- 
bits were  showing  their  white  scuts  on  the  edges  of  the 
oak-plantations ;  and  the  black  and  gray  humble-bees  were 
buzzing  as  they  rifled  the  lavender  scabious  and  the  blue 
corn-bottles  and  the  late  white  clover-blooms. 

Looking  northeast  toward  the  richly  wooded  hill  where 
perches  Fort  Queleu,  you  could  see  the  French  flag  flying 
from  there,  and  from  St.  Privat,  and  the  great  cathedral  of 
Metz  sitting  in  the  lap  of  the  Moselle.  The  railway  bridge 
crossing  the  green,  slowly  rolling  river  above  Ars  was 
guarded  by  Uhlans  and  Engineers.  A  stray  outpost  with 
half  a  field-battery  held  the  island  below  the  bridge,  and 
the  rear  squadrons  of  a  brigade  of  cavalry, — Blue  Dra- 
goons, White  Cuirassiers,  Uhlans,  and  Bed  .Hussars,  with 
two  batteries  of  Horse  Artillery,  were  traversing  the  iron 
roadway,  the  troopers  walking  beside  the  horses  as  they 
delicately  picked  their  way  along.  The  Advance  was  al- 
most out  of  sight,  the  midpost  squadrons,  remounted,  were 
under  the  bluff  that  runs  beside  the  river  road  from  Ars 
to  below  Aney,  and  with  the  Staff  of  the  Cuirassier  brigade- 
commander — the  dazzling  scarlet-and-gold  of  his  British 
Dragoon's  uniform  contrasting  forcibly  with  the  steel  cui- 
rasses and  white  coats,  his  red-plumed  silver  helmet  shin- 
ing like  a  miniature  sun — rode  Brotherton,  on  a  powerful 
dappled-gray  horse,  his  handsome  face  animated  and  eager 
as  he  replied  to  some  remark  addressed  to  him  by  the 
Brigadier. 

' '  Certainly,  General,  but  I  should  think  the  sword  could 
never  be  superseded.  It  is,  with  the  bow  and  spear,  the 
traditional  weapon  of  war." 

"You  omit  the  sling,  Colonel!"  called  out  an  officer 
who  rode  behind  him.  And  then  the  scrap  of  English  talk 
was  swamped  in  the  clink  of  steel  on  steel,  and  the  rhyth- 
mical trampling  of  the  squadrons  that  followed. 

P.  C.  Breagh  sat  astride  of  a  hot  boulder,  got  out  the 
Doctor's  map  and  adjusted  his  cherished  binoculars.  They 
showed  him  the  battalion  he  had  marched  with  halted  by 
the  side  of  the  river  road.  The  bridge  at  Pagny  showed 
black  with  solid  columns  of  infantry,  marching  eight 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  377 

abreast;  their  sun-touched  bayonets  rippling  lines  of 
molten  silver,  each  helmet-spike  a  flame  of  ruddy  gold. 

The  First  and  Second  Armies  of  United  Germany,  hither- 
to compelled  to  a  strenuous  inactivity,  were  having  their 
innings  with  a  vengeance  now.  .  .  .  Looking  Metz- 
wards,  one  could  see  that  three  new  lines  of  pontoons  were 
thrown  across  the  river  below  Vaux.  A  division  of  the 
dark-blue  soldiers,  with  eight  squadrons  of  cavalry  and 
half  a  dozen  batteries  of  mounted  artillery,  were  crossing 
almost  within  range  of  the  guns  of  Mount  St.  Quentin 
and  Plappeville. 

How  thickly  the  white  tents  were  clustered  on  the  green 
slopes  about  both  fortresses,  Red  Breeches  swarming  in 
thousands  without  and  within  the  walls.  Were  the  gun- 
ners of  the  huge  bronze  Creusots  one  had  read  of  asleep, 
or  lazy  or  indifferent?  The  answer  came  in  a  spirt  of 
white  vapor  from  an  embrasure  of  the  middle  salient  of 
St.  Quentin 's  long,  eight-pointed  star.  A  white-hot  flame 
leaped,  a  towering  cloud  of  smoke  soared,  the  roar  of  a 
heavy  piece  of  artillery  followed ;  and  a  shell  of  big  caliber 
soared  above  Moulins  and  burst  with  a  shattering  explosion 
and  an  uprush  of  flame.  Some  Artillery-horses  on  the 
nearest  pontoon  reared,  causing  a  momentary  confusion. 
Their  dismounted  drivers  quieted  them,  and  the  orderly 
crossing  went  on. 

Boom-Boom!  Crack!  A  clatter  like  old  iron  and  a 
heavy  splashing  and  pounding  of  hoofs.  St.  Quentin  had 
got  the  range. — No !  the  shrapnel  shell  had  been  fired  from 
a  French  field-battery  placed  behind  earthworks  above 
St.  Ruffine.  Another  shell  hit  the  upper  pontoon  and 
must  have  smashed  it  adrift  on  the  landing  side.  For 
dark-blue  men  and  struggling  horses  were  drifting  away  in 
the  direction  of  Metz,  and  the  green  river  was  tinged  with 
red.  The  wheelers  of  a  gun-team,  dragged  downward  by 
the  weight  attached  to  them,  had  gone  to  the  bottom  almost 
without  a  struggle.  The  leaders,  submerged  all  but  their 
wild  heads  and  splashing  fore-hoofs,  battled  a  while  with 
the  current  before  one  of  them  vanished.  The  other,  whose 
rope-and-chain  traces  had  somehow  broken,  swam  gallantly 
down-stream,  and  finally  landed  on  the  farther  bank. 

Further  successful  practice  on  the  part  of  France's 
artillerists  may  have  followed.  At  this  juncture  the  atten- 


378  THE    MAN    OF   IRON 

tion  of  P.  C.  Breagh  became  diverted  by  a  curious  fact. 
One  of  the  stone-pines  seemed  to  be  lobbing  cones  at  him. 
Whiff-phutt!  they  were  dropping  on  all  sides.  Or  could 
it?  ...  A  shrill  whistling  sound  close  by  his  ear,  and  a 
simultaneous  bristling  of  the  hairs  upon  his  scalp  and  body, 
told  him  that  it  could.  The  missiles  were  bullets. 

They  came,  sometimes  with  a  sharp  whistle  that  told  of 
unexpended  energy,  at  others  with  the  pleasant  humming 
that  had  at  first  attracted  him,  from  the  woods  that  clothed 
the  rising  ground  northwest  and  west  of  the  platform  he 
occupied. 

"Were  they  Prussian  bullets  or  French  ?  At  the  moment, 
the  question  did  not  interest  him.  He  had  pocketed  his 
map  and  crawling  on  his  belly  towards  the  southern  edge 
of  his  platform,  looked  cautiously  over,  meditating  descent. 
Beyond  was  a  sandwich-shaped  stretch  of  woodland  climb- 
ing to  a  ridge ;  and  beyond  the  ridge  a  considerable  expanse 
of  bush-dotted  common  bordered  by  a  stream  and  speckled 
with  a  few  farm-buildings.  Quite  a  decent-sized  town 
lifted  its  Norman  church-tower  nearly  a  mile  away. 

The  town  must  be  Gorze.  Withdrawing  his  eyes  from  it, 
they  dropped  into  a  deep  ravine  or  combe  running  parallel 
with  the  western  and  southern  sides  of  the  giant  limestone 
rock  he  sprawled  on.  Ferns  clothed  the  deep,  hollow  sides, 
and  oaks  and  birches,  springing  from  the  bottom,  lifted 
their  bushy  heads  to  the  level  of  his  face.  Spying  between 
the  branches,  he  saw  that  the  ravine  was  full  of  garishly 
colored  lights  and  shadows,  and  that  a*steady  current  of 
glittering  white  metal  snaked  in  and  out  between  the  tree- 
trunks,  setting  from  west  to  east. 

Bayonets,  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  red-breeched 
French  soldiers,  moving  with  startling  rapidity  over  the 
dry  leaves  at  the  bottom  of  the  ravine.  A  battalion,  at 
least,  of  wiry,  active-looking  Voltigeurs,  a  mitrailleuse- 
battery,  each  weapon  hauled  by  a  team  of  three  gunners. 
.  .  .  Green-coated  Chasseurs  a  pied,  with  cocks'  plumes 
shading  the  peaks  of  their  kepis  followed.  Would  a  sur- 
prise be  intended  for  the  cavalry-brigades  that  had  crossed 
the  railway-bridge  and  ridden  eastward  down  the  river- 
road  a  few  minutes  previously?  In  that  case,  what  ought 
one  to  do  ? 

Even  as  he  asked,  the  advanced  company  of  Voltigeurs 
discovered  the  Prussian  squadrons.  He  saw  a  ripple  of 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  379 

excitement  pass  down  the  ranks,  and  the  Voltigeurs  hurry- 
forward  at  the  double.  He  saw  the  mitrailleuse-batteries 
string  out  in  line,  push  up  the  sloping  sides  of  the  ra- 
vine, and  scatter  among  the  trees  of  the  plantation  that 
climbed  the  ridge.  The  Chasseurs  followed.  Their  inten- 
tion was  obvious.  They  were  going  to  enfilade  the  passing 
brigades  from  the  cover  of  the  wood. 

Even  as  the  hounds  of  hell  seemed  to  break  loose,  and  a 
sheet  of  pure  yellow-white  flame  ran  from  end  to  end  of  the 
ridge  where  the  trees  ended,  the  foremost  brigade  of  three 
Hussar  regiments  came  in  view,  trotting  over  a  track  that 
traversed  the  common,  became  a  road,  and  plunged  be- 
tween deep  woodlands  trending  west.  His  map  had  told 
him  that  the  road  led  to  Rezonville  and  Gravelotte. 

He  heard  the  Prussian  trumpets  sound  through  the  ear- 
splitting  racket  of  the  French  rifle-fire.  He  saw  through 
the  thin  haze  of  powder-smoke  that  hung  above  the  wood, 
the  massed  columns  split  into  squadrons,  the  squadrons 
divide  into  troops,  the  troops  become  units — scattered  over 
the  common,  galloping  to  re-form  again  upon  the  road  that 
led  through  the  woods  to  Rezonville. 

They  were  two  of  the  brigades  forming  Rheinbaben's 
Fifth  Division,  under  Von  Barby  and  Von  Bredow,  push- 
ing forward  to  join  General  von  Redern  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Mac  La  Tour.  Their  mobility  saved  them  from 
decimation  on  a  grand  scale,  but  they  left  dead  horses  and 
men  and  officers  dead  and  wounded.  Their  retreat  was 
covered  by  one  of  their  batteries  of  Horse  Artillery,  and 
two  squadrons  of  a  Uhlan  regiment. 

In  the  distance  a  riderless  gray  charger  galloped  wildly 
over  the  common,  and  a  prone  figure  in  a  brilliant  scarlet 
coat  lay  motionless  beside  the  track.  More  could  not  be 
observed  just  then,  for  the  battery  of  Horse  Artillery  got 
into  position,  while  the  Uhlans  dismounted  and  coolly 
returned  with  carbine-fire  the  enfilade  from  the  chassepots 
in  the  wood. 

They  knelt,  and  aimed  and  shot  without  hurry,  and  that 
their  shooting  was  effective  was  demonstrated  to  the  non- 
combatant  onlooker,  by  half  a  dozen  French  Artillerymen 
and  Chasseurs  a  pied  who  came  staggering  or  limping  back 
through  the  trees,  and  got  down  into  the  ravine.  One 
toppled  over  in  the  act  of  negotiating  the  descent,  and  lay 
sprawling  and  head  downward.  Another,  who  kept  put- 


380 

ting  a  hand  to  his  streaming  cheek,  and  taking  it  away  to 
stare  at  the  blood  upon  it,  was  shot  again  in  a  vital  part, 
spun  around,  and  collapsed  in  a  heap. 

"Lee-ee  eer!" 

The  wailing,  stinging  screech  of  a  bullet  that  had  shaved 
unpleasantly  near  was  accompanied  by  the  whisking  of 
the  sun-scorched  straw  hat  from  the  head  of  P.  C.  Breagh, 
and  an  acute  pang  of  deadly  fear.  In  the  same  instant  the 
Prussian  field-battery  opened  fire.  Beyond  the  trees  four 
puffs  of  white  smoke  went  up,  and  four  tongues  of  bright 
yellow  flame  preceded  the  quadruple  crash  of  the  driving- 
charges.  Lanes  opened  through  the  smoke-filled  wood, 
as  trees  split  into  kindling  and  match-sticks.  And  heaps 
of  green  and  scarlet  rags  mixed  with  bloody  flesh  and 
shattered  bones  mingled  with  the  debris.  And  something 
that  screamed  like  a  devil  unchained  hurtled  through  inter- 
vening space,  and  plumped  upon  the  limestone  platform 
within  a  dozen  feet  of  P.  C.  Breagh.  And  he  shrieked  like 
a  shot  rabbit  as  it  exploded  with  a  splitting  crash,  and  a 
spurt  of  evil  yellow  fire  licked  the  skin  off  his  ear  and 
cheek. 

Dazed  and  stupefied,  he  removed  himself  to  the  farther 
and  more  sheltered  side  of  the  platform.  But  the  skirmish 
was  over,  the  Voltigeurs  and  the  Chasseurs  a  pied,  with 
what  remained  of  the  mitrailleuse-battery,  had  not  waited 
for  the  Uhlans  to  charge,  but  were  in  pell-mell  retreat  along 
the  ravine.  He  heard  a  French  voice  cry  savagely: 

"We  are  cut  off !    These  woods  are  full  of  Prussians !" 

And  in  the  same  instant,  through  the  lanes  that  had  been 
hacked  through  the  trees,  P.  C.  Breagh  saw  the  Prussian 
artillery  limber  up  and  ride  off  with  what  remained  of  the 
Uhlan  squadrons.  They  were  wanted  badly  at  the  front, 
and  the  infantry-battalions  with  which  P.  C.  Breagh  had 
marched  from  Pont  a  Mousson,  and  the  Division  coming 
up  from  Pagny,  striking  into  the  Ars  road,  had  crossed  the 
upper  end  of  the  ravine.  The  woods  were  indeed  full  of 
them.  And  they  also  were  wanted  at  the  front  and  had 
no  time  to  spare. 

As  blue  uniforms  and  crimson  faces  topped  by  gilt- 
spiked  helmets  came  crowding  through  the  trees,  the 
human  river,  flowing  along  the  bottom  of  the  defile,  rose 
in  a  wave  and  splashed  back  upon  itself.  A  red-haired 
young  officer  of  Voltigeurs,  drawing  his  sword,  used  his 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  381 

voice  and  the  flat  of  the  weapon  to  restore  order ;  and  suc- 
ceeded so  far  that  his  company  formed  in  straggling  lines 
and  began  to  send  in  volleys  with  the  courage  of  despair. 
The  gunners  of  the  mitrailleuse  that  was  not  smashed  by 
the  German  shell-fire  could  not  use  the  piece  effectively  at 
the  bottom  of  the  death-trap.  They  were  shot  down  in  the 
attempt. 

It  was  cool,  scientific  slaughter — merciless  carnage. 
Before  it  began,  a  bugle  cautioned  attention.  A  flat- 
capped  field-officer  pushed  his  horse  to  the  front  and  cried 
in  stentorian  tones: 

"Aimed  fire!" 

The  men  of  the  chassepot  made  a  gallant  stand,  but  the 
odds  were  heavy,  and  the  men  of  the  needle-gun  did  not 
waste  a  cartridge.  They  loaded  and  aimed,  fired  and  re- 
loaded with  machine-like  precision.  When  the  ravine  was 
piled  with  bloody  corpses  the  bugles  sounded  "Cease  fire!" 
Then  the  Prussian  field-officer  spurred  to  the  edge  of  the 
red  ditch  and  shouted,  looking  down : 

"Does  anyone  here  ask  quarter?" 

There  was  a  laugh.  But  something  raised  itself  from  a 
heap  of  bullet-pierced  bodies.  A  rattling  voice  cried : 

' '  No,  dog  of  a  Prussian ! ' ' 

A  revolver  cracked,  and  the  speaker,  a  Voltigeur,  was 
silent.  His  voice  had  sounded  like  that  of  an  old  man,  but 
he  wore  the  epaulettes  of  a  lieutenant  and  had  carroty- 
red  hair.  At  this  juncture,  being  overtaken  by  grievous 
retching  and  vomiting,  P.  C.  Breagh's  observations 
ceased. 

He  sat  up  presently  and  wiped  his  dripping  neck  and 
mopped  his  forehead.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  seen 
the  whole  French  Army  exterminated,  and  yet  he  had 
witnessed  but  a  skirmish  ending  in  a  battue.  He  shook  his 
wits  into  some  order,  and  controlled  the  shuddering  that 
took  him  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  when  he  remembered 
that  in  common  decency  he  must  go  to  Brotherton. 

The  descent  from  the  rock-platform  was  nothing  more 
than  a  risky  scramble.  There  were  plenty  of  pine  and 
furze  roots  and  jutting  stones  for  holding  to  and  clefts  into 
which  to  thrust  one 's  toes.  But  the  crossing  of  that  ravine 
cumbered  with  bloody  corpses  was  not  effected  without 
revolt  of  body  and  soul.  He  slipped  once  and  fell,  and 
struggled  up  all  horribly  besmeared  and  sick  and  shaking. 


382  THE    MAN    OF    IROX 

For  the  teeth  of  a  head  from  which  the  face  had  been 
shot  away  had  snapped  close  by  his  ear.  Then  came  the 
negotiation  of  the  bit  of  woodland.  Here  were  more  Vol- 
tigeurs  and  Chasseurs  a  pied  dead  and  horribly  mutilated, 
and  the  wreck  of  a  mitrailleuse,  with  two  of  its  gunners. 
Some  of  these  poor  wounded  creatures  were  living,  and 
moaned  for  water. 

"My  God! — my  God!  how  I  suffer!"  one  feeble  voice 
kept  crying. 

Help  was  coming,  for  from  the  direction  of  the  town 
some  carts  were  being  driven,  one  by  a  stout  priest  in  cas- 
sock and  broad-brimmed  hat,  others  by  men  with  Red  Cross 
armlets.  Black-habited,  white-capped  Sisters  of  Mercy 
were  in  these  vehicles,  with  baskets,  and  pitchers,  and 
pails. 

Seven  dead  Hussars  showing  hideously  the  effect  of 
mitrailleuse-fire, — a  troop-horse  or  two,  and  a  White  Cuir- 
assier shot  through  the  body  and  swearing  horribly  in 
Low  German,  were  the  fruits  of  the  French  enfilade.  The 
fine  gray  charger  had  ceased  careering ;  it  grazed  peaceably 
on  the  short  herbage  by  the  track  that  led  over  the  com- 
mon. But  Chris  Brotherton  would  never  sit  in  saddle 
again. 

P.  C.  Breagh  turned  him  gently  over  and  opened  the 
gold-laced  scarlet  tunic.  There  was  no  blood  upon  it,  only 
clean  dust,  nor  was  the  dead  man  bruised  or  cut,  having 
fallen  where  it  was  grassy.  Upon  the  broad  breast,  under 
the  white  cambric  shirt,  was  an  oval  miniature,  pearl-set, 
of  a  pretty  woman.  The  handsome  mouth  of  the  wearer 
smiled  under  the  drooping  fair  mustache,  and  his  blue 
eyes  stared  glassily.  A  bluish  hole  in  the  right  temple  and 
a  bloody  clot  amid  the  hair  upon  the  left  side  showed 
where  the  chassepot  bullet  had  traversed  the  brain. 

He  had  been  high-handed,  arrogant,  and  domineering, 
yet  the  Doctor  and  the  horsey  Towers  had  seemed  to  love 
him.  No  doubt  that  woman  in  the  miniature  had  held 
Chris  Brotherton  dear.  ...  P.  C.  Breagh  would  have 
left  her  fair  face  lying  on  the  yet  warm  breast  of  her  lover, 
but  something  he  saw  going  on  among  the  casualties  upon 
the  edge  of  the  wood  caused  him  to  change  his  mind. 

That  gaunt-eyed,  greedy-fingered  creature  in  the  peas- 
ant's blouse  and  Red  Cross  brassard,  who  glided  from 
body  to  body,  rifling  pocket*,  should  not  plunder  the  Doc- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  383 

tor's  friend.  With  this  determination,  Carolan  took  away 
the  portrait,  a  packet  of  letters,  and  Brotherton's  watch 
and  purse  and  pocketbook,  then  ^ent  forward  to  meet  the 
Sisters,  just  descending  from  th&  foremost  of  the  string  of 
peasants'  carts;  and  began: 

"My  Sister  .  .  ." 

The  nun  addressed  turned  a  pleasant  face  upon  him,  and 
cried,  with  a  sympathetic  clasping  of  her  small,  work- 
roughened  hands: 

"There  is  blood  on  Monsieur!  .  .  .  He  has  been 
wounded." 

P.  0.  Breagh  explained  with  economy  of  words  how  and 
where  he  had  been  watching  the  fighting,  and  whence  came 
the  ugly  stains  upon  his  clothes.  The  nun  glanced  toward 
the  wood,  paled  and  shuddered,  and  said,  making  the  sign 
of  the  Cross  upon  her  starched,  cape-like  guimpe: 

1 1  But  all  cannot  be  dead  who  lie  bleeding  in  that  ravin — 
the  hollow  where  our  poor  school-children  gather  primroses 
in  Spring?" 

"I  think  they  must  be.  The  massacre  was  carried  out 
deliberately.  Aimed  fire — and  there  is  not  a  movement, 
not  a  groan.  ..." 

P.  C.  Breagh  shuddered,  remembering  the  crossing  of 
the  red  ditch.  The  nun  said  with  energy,  as  other  black 
habits  and  white  guimpes  came  crowding  round  her: 

"We  must  make  sure.  .  .  .  Each  of  those  bodies  must 
be  lifted  and  examined.  Life  often  lingers,  sir,  when  it 
seems  to  have  fled.  We  learned  that  in  the  Crimea,  when 
we  worked  in  the  base-hospitals  of  Kamiesch.  WTiat  of 
these  things?"  P.  C.  Breagh  was  holding  out  the  portrait, 
purse,  pocketbook,  and  letters.  "You  wish  our  Keverend 
Mother  to  take  charge  of  them?  They  belonged  to  that 
dead  officer  yonder,  in  the  scarlet  uniform  ?  He  was  Eng- 
lish, you  tell  me — and  you,  too,  are  of  England?  Very 
well!  It  shall  be  as  you  wish,  Monsieur — I  am  free  to 
decide,  as  I  am  the  Superior  of  our  community.  But  I 
will  not  receive  the  valuables  at  your  hands  until  you  have 
helped  us  to  clear  that  terrible  ravine.  We  have  only  our 
good  priest  with  a  few  peasants  and  one  surgeon,  and  some 
charitable  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  Association  of  the 
Red  Cross.  Everyone  else  is  panic-stricken — they  have  bar- 
ricaded themselves  within  their  shops  and  houses,  and 
taken  refuge  in  the  cellars.  .  .  .  The  explosions  of  can- 


384  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

non  have  been  so  terrible — they  are  becoming  yet  more 
alarming,  and  when  the  fighting  came  quite  close.  .  .  .  Our 
people  are  not  brave,  you  think! — Still,  everyone  cannot 
be  courageous.  .  .  .  But,  Monsieur,  who  watches  men 
being  killed  by  guns  to  gain  experience — we  may  look  to 
Monsieur  for  help  ? ' ' 

The  clear  woman-eyes  went  to  the  sun-browned,  freckled 
face  of  the  young  man  in  the  travel-worn,  dusty,  blood- 
stained clothing,  and  realized  that  a  struggle  was  going  on 
within  him.  She  said: 

"If  Monsieur  is  of  necessity  compelled  to  go  and  leave 
us,  I  will  take  charge  of  the  dead  English  officer 's  property 
for  Monsieur.  But  a  great  blessing  is  for  those  who  succor 
the  wounded.  Our  Lord  has  always  promised  this!" 

No  one  listened  to  the  little  colloquy ;  some  of  the  Sisters 
were  already  stooping  beside  the  prone  bodies,  two  of  them 
were  helping  the  vocal  Cuirassier  into  a  cart.  .  .  . 

With  a  great  longing  P.  C.  Breagh  had  longed  to  make 
the  ridge  south  of  Flavigny,  and  see  with  his  own  eyes 
how  the  Man  of  Iron  comported  himself  in  the  clash  of  war. 
And  to  stay  behind  and  forego  the  possibility  cost  him 
poignant  anguish,  but  one  could  not  leave  the  Superior  and 
the  Sisters  to  dabble  unaided  in  that  ghastly  ravine. 

' '  I  will  stay,  Reverend  Mother, ' '  he  said,  with  a  bow  that 
might  have  been  more  clumsy.  Next  moment  Brotherton's 
property  had  vanished  into  a  huge  pocket  hidden  some- 
where in  the  black  habit.  The  nun  clapped  her  hands, 
crying  to  the  peasants : 

"Thanks!  thanks!  Come,  Antoine,  Pichegru,  Eloi, 
Benoit!  Dubois!  To  the  wood,  my  friends!  and  the 
hollow,  where  are  many  sufferers !  I  place  you  under  the 
orders  of  this  English  Monsieur." 


XLIV 

UPON  that  battlefield  of  Gravelotte,  France,  driven  to  bay, 
fought  like  a  royal  tigress.  How  many  times  the  dark  blue 
Divisions  were  thrown  back  in  their  assault  upon  positions 
zoned  with  death-bellowing  cannon  and  death-barking  mi- 
trailleuses, History  relates.  So  murderous  was  the  fire  of 
her  chassepotiers  from  their  densely  manned  rifle-pits  that 
you  could  trace  Moltke's  plans  of  assault  in  mounds  of 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  385 

dead  Uhlan  cavalry  and  long  regular  swathes  of  motionless 
blue  objects  that  had  been  Schmidt,  Schultz,  and  Kunz.  .  .  . 

Yet  if  the  "Warlock  had  said  within  himself,  "This  shall 
be  above  all  a  battle  of  cavalry,"  it  would  seem  as  though 
the  determination  had  been  formed  upon  the  other  side. 

For  this  day  that  saw  the  death-charge  of  Von  Bredow's 
brigade  upon  the  Gorze  Road — Uhlans,  White  Cuirassiers, 
and  Dragoons  of  the  Guard  hurled  in  a  solid  column  of 
shining  steel  against  French  field-batteries  and  battalions 
of  riflemen — also  saw  the  cavalry  of  Frossard,  of  Lad- 
mirault,  and  Canrobert  ride  do\vn  whole  squares  of  Ger- 
man infantry,  who  rose  again  and  poured  in  volleys  from 
their  needle-guns,  to  be  beaten  down  by  the  storms  of 
leaden  hail  ground  out  by  the  mitrailleuse. 

A  glowing,  coppery  sun  looked  down  on  those  six  square 
miles  of  fiercely  contested  ground.  Over  its  whole  expanse 
there  was  not  one  patch  as  big  as  a  National  School  play- 
ground without  its  debris  of  arms  and  accouterments,  its 
ghastly  or  ludicrous  tokens  of  war. 

In  an  intermittent  lull  of  the  racket  you  could  hear  the 
dry  earth,  that  had  been  pounded  bare  of  verdure,  sucking 
moisture  as  though  after  heavy  rain.  Only  the  rain  was 
red.  The  faint,  sour  smell  of  it  came  to  the  nostrils 
mingled  with  the  smell  of  burnt  gunpowder,  human  and 
equine  exhalations,  and  the  acrid  stifle  of  burning  wood. 

For  Flavigny  was  yet  smouldering,  the  farm-buildings  at 
Gorze  were  burning,  Malmaison  was  a  furnace ;  houses  and 
barns  at  Verneville  were  wrapped  in  clouds  of  black  smoke 
shot  with  lurid  flame. 

Exhausted  battalions,  sick  and  stupefied  with  slaughter, 
were  lying  down  among  the  dead  and  the  wounded  to  snatch 
a  wink  of  sleep.  Others  opened  their  haversacks  to  snatch 
a  hasty  mouthful,  or  drained  their  canteens  of  the  last 
drop.  Surgeons  were  going  up  and  down  among  them, 
patching  up  flesh-cuts  with  lint  and  diachylon,  temporarily 
plugging  bullet-wounds  of  the  minor  order.  "There!" 
they  would  say  to  the  Schmidt,  Kunz,  or  Schultz  so  treated ; 
' '  now  you  are  fit  for  fighting  again ! ' ' 

Perhaps  you  can  see  the  Man  of  Iron  in  his  white  Cuiras- 
sier cap,  black  undress  frock  with  the  pewter  buttons,  and 
great  steel-spurred  jack-boots,  standing,  grim- jawed  and 
inscrutable,  behind  his  King's  camp-chair.  Through  the 
stress  and  storm  of  two  long  days  of  hot  fighting,  that 


386 

patch  of  high  ground  south  of  Flavigny  had  been  the  point 
to  which  orderlies  and  aides-de-camp  furiously  galloped 
from  every  point  of  the  compass,  and  from  which  they 
galloped  back  in  even  more  desperate  haste. 

In  the  rear  of  the  camp-chair,  not  so  close  to  it  as  to 
draw  fire,  were  the  King's  personal  military  staff,  a  bevy 
of  Princes,  and  the  representative  of  the  British  War  Office, 

Colonel  .  Several  Councillors  and  Secretaries  of 

the  Chancellor's  traveling  Foreign  Office  stood  about,  stout, 
gray-haired,  important-looking  persons  in  semi-military 
uniform.  The  carriages  that  had  conveyed  them  waited  at 
Tronville.  The  King's  charger  and  those  of  the  other 
great  personages  were  in  the  care  of  orderlies.  The  Escort 
waited  by  their  horses  in  the  background. 

Moltke  stood  apart,  taciturn  and  inscrutable,  nursing 
his  thin  elbow  and  cupping  his  long  chin.  Roon,  who  con- 
trary to  his  custom  was  not  wearing  his  helmet,  gloomily 
champed  his  cap-strap,  unable  to  disguise  his  anguish  of 
anxiety.  He  would  have  given  a  year  of  life  to  say : 

' '  Old  man,  so  cool  in  the  midst  of  this  hellish  slaughter, 
can  it  be  that  you  do  not  know  how  things  really  are  going  ? 
Since  two  of  the  clock  the  French  have  had  the  best  of  it ! 
The  chassepot  you  termed  a  'magnificent  weapon'  has  jus- 
tified your  eulogism.  The  mitrailleuse  we  despised,  not 
comprehending  its  terrible  capabilities,  has  revealed  them 
to  our  undoing.  The  Army  of  United  Germany  bleeds  at 
every  pore ! ' ' 

He  tore  his  mustache,  the  dye  upon  which  had  not  been 
renewed  recently.  His  heart  swelled  with  the  flood  of 
pent-up  speech. 

"The  Commander-in-Chief 's  dispatches  to  the  Queen 
have  been  cheered  in  Berlin.  Throughout  Germany  they 
are  hailed  with  joy.  .  .  .  'France  now  fights  with  her  back 
to  the  Rhine,'  the  people  say.  'Our  Army  stands  arrayed 
between  Bazaine  and  Paris!'  Is  it  possible  they  do  not 
realize  that  the  situation  is  critical?  Have  they  no  suspi- 
cion that  the  tables  might  be  turned  ? ' ' 

He  wrung  his  knotted  hands  together  in  torment,  and 
the  sweat  started  in  gouts  upon  his  livid  skin. 

"Before  us  the  Army  of  Bazaine — behind  us  at  Chalons 
the  Army  of  MacMahon.  Were  the  Duke  of  Magenta 
with  his  recuperated  Divisions  to  advance  energetically  and 
swiftly  to  the  relief  of  his  brother  Marshal — could  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  387 

Crown  Prince  hold  him  back?  And  if  he  could  not,  what 
were  our  chance  worth?  ..." 

The  sentence  had  escaped  Boon  without  his  knowledge. 
Moltke's  wrinkled  visage  turned  his  way.  The  scarlet- 
rimmed  eyes  glittered  on  him  a  moment.  Boon  leaped  as 
the  dry  voice  said : 

"Not  so  much  as  a  pinch  of  snuff!" 

The  War  Minister  stammered: 

"Pardon,  Your  Excellency!    You  spoke  to  me?  .  .  ." 

Moltke  answered  quietly: 

"I  asked  if  you  could  spare  me  a  pinch  of  snuff.  My 
box  is  empty."  He  opened  the  little  silver  receptacle  and 
turned  it  upside  down,  tapping  it  on  his  finger  nail: 
' '  Neither  have  I  a  single  cigar ! ' ' 

Boon  had  forgotten  his  cigar-case  in  quarters.  He 
fumbled  for  his  snuff-box,  thought  it  must  be  in  his  cloak. 
A  resonant  voice  said  from  behind  the  King's  camp-chair: 

"Will  Your  Excellency  take  one  of  these?" 

"Why  not?  why  not?  If  they  are  not  too  strong  for 
me.  ..."  The  Warlock  smiled,  showing  his  toothless  gums. 
The  Chancellor  said,  opening  and  offering  the  plain  green 
leather  case  with  the  coroneted  B  stamped  in  gilding  on  it : 

"It  may  be  they  are  stronger  than  you  are  accustomed 
to  smoke?" 

Moltke's  keen,  swift  glance  met  the  heavy  blue  stare  of 
the  Chancellor.  He  returned: 

"I  will  answer  Your  Excellency  when  I  have  tested 
them." 

The  case  held  three  Havanas  of  varying  merit.  Two 
were  good,  one  super-excellent.  The  withered  hand  hoT- 
ered,  paused  above  them,  made  selection,  while  the  sharp, 
glittering  glance  seemed  to  say :  "  So !  .  .  .  You  are  trying 
again  the  test  you  put  me  to  at  Koniggratz !  See !  I  am 
cool  enough  to  choose  the  better  creed!"  While  Bismarck 
returned  the  case  to  his  breeches-pocket,  mentally  com- 
menting : 

"Excellent.  He  has  chosen  the  best  one.  He  is  not 
flustered — he  has  yet  a  trump  to  play!" 

Believed,  he  returned  to  his  post  behind  the  King's 
camp-chair,  a  rugged,  powerful  figure,  with  the  face  of  a 
thoroughbred  mastiff,  unwearyingly  keeping  guard  lest 
meaner  influences  should  undermine  his  power  and  topple 
his  unfinished  life-work  down. 


388  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Watching  the  battle  through  these  noonday  hours,  he 
had,  being  a  practical  soldier  as  well  as  a  consummate 
statesman,  known  some  moments  of  horrible  foreboding. 
Now  his  courage  revived.  The  work  would  be  completed. 
The  well-shaped,  sun-browned  hand  lightly  resting  on  the 
chair-back  would  hold  all  Germany  within  its  iron  grip. 

The  thrill  of  conscious  power  transmitted  itself  to  the 
King,  it  may  be,  for  he  moved  impatiently  in  his  seat. 
Sometimes  he  must  have  chafed,  the  white-haired  Ilohen- 
zollern  chieftain,  knowing  himself  a  puppet  in  the  hands 
of  his  powerful  Minister. 

"How  they  fight!  How  they  fight!  Ach  Gott!"  he 
muttered.  "Wouldst  thou  have  credited,  Otto,  that  such 
fire  was  left  in  France  ? ' ' 

And  the  helmeted  head  of  the  old  chieftain  shook  with 
an  uncontrollable  nervous  spasm.  Over  it  came  the  scof- 
fing retort: 

"It  is  the  fire  of  fever,  the  fire  of  phosphorescence.  It 
will  leave  them  weak  and  debilitated — it  will  glimmer  out 
and  go  black.  And  yet  Bazaine,  contemptible  as  a  strate- 
gist, has  his  moments  of  inspiration.  The  thrust  of  the 
skilled  fencer  will  sometimes  puzzle  the  master  of  swords- 
manship. .  .  .  Frossard  and  Canrobert  are  devout  Catho- 
lics, and  no  doubt  believe  in  guardian-spirits.  They  have 
had  a  hint,  it  may  be,  from  some  celestial  Field  Marshal; 
St.  Louis,  possibly,  or  the  Chevalier  de  Bayard." 

The  King  murmured,  unheeding  the  jest,  his  eyes  glued 
to  the  field-glasses  that  jerked  in  his  shaking  hands: 

"Even  a  victory  could  not  bring  my  soldiers  of  the 
Guard  to  life  again.  And  there !  Dost  thou  see  ?  .  .  . " 

The  Minister  turned  his  own  binoculars  in  the  indicated 
quarter.  "What  remained  of  a  Division  of  the  Prussian 
10th  Corps,  with  a  brigade  of  cavalry,  Uhlans  and 
Dragoons,  was  locked  in  the  death-grip  with  a  Cavalry 
Division  of  Bazaine 's  own  corps,  the  Third,  on  the  plain 
between  the  Bois  de  Vionville  and  the  Bois  de  Gaumont. 
And  even  the  Chancellor's  iron  hand  trembled  as  with 
ague,  and  his  breathing  harshened  perceptibly  as  he  care- 
fully focused  the  glasses  on  the  fight.  He  said  after  a 
moment : 

' '  Those  three  regiments  of  cavalry  on  brown  horses  with 
green,  silver-laced  dolmans  and  red-bagged  talpacks  are 
Chasseurs  of  the  Imperial  Guard.  Fine  fellows!  They 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

tave  a  man  to  lead  them,  it  would  seem,  in  that  little 
Colonel  with  the  big  paunch." 

The  Brigadier  of  the  Chasseurs  had  been  killed  by  a 
shell,  and  upon  Paunchy  had  devolved  the  leadership. 
Twice  he  had  led  the  green  dolmans  in  shattering  charges, 
under  the  stress  of  which  the  dark  blue  islands  of  infantry 
had  hollowed  and  caved  in.  Twice  he  had  fought  his  way 
out  at  the  head  of  his  shrunken  and  mutilated  squadrons. 
Now,  sweeping  round,  the  Dragoons  and  Uhlans  had  at- 
tacked the  Chasseurs  furiously  in  the  rear. 

All  that  could  be  seen,  even  through  the  binoculars,  was 
a  shifting  kaleidoscopic  jumble  of  gay  uniforms.  Men's 
heads  and  arms  rising  and  falling,  flashing  swords,  flicker- 
ing lance-pennons,  and  the  crests  and  hindquarters  of 
plunging  beasts.  .  .  .  Hence  Kraus,  Klaus,  and  Klein  of 
the  blue  infantry  could  not  fire  into  the  melee  for  fear  of 
shooting  their  countrymen.  Eed  Breeches  hesitated  to  use 
his  chassepot  on  the  same  count. 

About  a  bushy  knoll  to  the  left  of  the  struggle,  the 
German  cavalry  circled  like  swallows,  greedily  assailing  a 
swarm  of  green  and  red  dragon-flies.  The  chasseurs'  car- 
tridge-boxes being  empty,  they  used  their  long  sabers  as 
they  had  used  their  carbines,  coolly  and  effectively;  and 
Paunchy,  lifted  above  the  press  by  the  little  knoll  referred 
to,  encouraged  them  with  looks  and  gestures  and  words. 

"Courage,  my  children!  .  .  .  Follow  me!  .  .  .  Bravo! 
.  .  .  One  moment's  breathing-space,  and  at  them  again!" 

He  was  only  a  green  and  scarlet  speck  in  the  midst  of  an 
aggregation  of  other  specks  on  the  vast  battlefield,  yet  the 
King  and  the  Minister  watched  him  with  fixed  regard. 

"Grosser  Gottl  How  that  man  fights!"  the  King  mut- 
tered at  one  point  in  the  conflict,  and  the  rejoinder  came 
from  overhead: 

"He  is  gallant,  certainly,  but  a  bit  of  an  actor.  Would 
not  one  say  that  flourish  was  meant  for  the  ladies  in  the 
orchestra-stalls  ? ' ' 

"Because  he  has  kissed  a  medal  or  a  relic?"  the  King 
muttered,  tugging  at  his  white  whisker.  "Doubtless  he  is 
Catholic.  .  .  .  We  ourselves  have  many  brave  soldiers  of 
the  Roman  faith ! ' ' 

For  as  his  squadrons  ever  thinned  and  dwindled,  every 
instant  paying  toll  to  the  great  swords  of  the  Prussian 


390  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

Dragoons  and  the  blood-thirsty  Uhlan  lances,  they  had 
seen  the  little  Brigadier  take  from  the  breast  of  his  green 
dolman  something  white  and  press  his  bearded  lips  to  it, 
and  thrust  it  back  again,  and  sign  himself  with  the  Cross. 

"Hurrah  Preussenl  Immer  vorwdrts!"  yelled  the 
Uhlans,  as  their  dripping  lance-points  flickered  in  and  out 
between  the  red-stained  sword-blades,  and  the  bodies  of 
dead  Chasseurs  and  dead  horses  rose  in  a  mound  about  the 
knoll  where  stood  the  little  Brigadier. 

Paunchy  possessed  a  great  voice.  His  "Chargez!"  had 
reached  the  ears  of  the  King  and  his  Chancellor  through 
all  the  pandemonium  of  battle.  When  his  Staff  trum- 
peter's instrument,  bullet-pierced,  gave  forth  no  sound 
but  a  strangled  screeching,  the  little  Colonel's  thundering 
"Feu!"  needed  no  trumpet  to  make  the  order  plain.  Now, 
his  "Vive  la  France!  Vive  I'Empereur!"  boomed  out  like 
the  roar  of  a  dying  lion.  His  melting  squadrons  gave  back 
the  rallying-cry. 

But  they  were  lost.  Prisoned  within  the  ring  of  piercing 
steel  that  tirelessly  revolved  about  them,  they  could  kill, 
but  they  could  not  break  through  the  barrier.  Fresh  squad- 
rons rushed  with  hoarse  shouts  to  the  aid  of  the  German 
cavalry.  The  Chasseurs  were  hopelessly  outnumbered,  and 
must  inevitably  be  crushed. 

The  subaltern  who  bore  the  Imperial  standard  got  a 
lance-thrust  in  the  shoulder.  At  the  same  moment,  his 
horse  was  shot  dead.  As  the  beast  reared  in  the  death- 
throe  and  went  down  under  the  plunging  hoofs  of  the 
maddened  horses  round  him,  the  Colonel  leaned  from  his 
saddle,  seized  the  hand  that  gripped  the  staff  of  the  stand- 
ard, drew  the  fainting  officer  upward,  and  laid  him  across 
his  own  saddle-bow.  Then,  as  his  gallant  horse  braced 
itself  to  bear  the  double  burden,  the  rider  lifted  high  the 
glistening  folds  of  the  tricolor  topped  by  the  golden  Im- 
perial eagle,  and  as  the  Uhlans  charged  the  knoll  he  shouted 
again  in  terrible  tones  the  slogan  of  the  dying  Empire : 

"Vive  la  France!    Vwe  I'Empereur/' f 

War  has  many  of  these  sublime  moments  mingled  with 
her  squalid  hideousness.  Upon  this  day  many  a  soldier, 
French  and  German,  died  as  finely  as  the  father  of  Juliette. 
You  are  to  see  him — bareheaded,  for  the  fur  talpack  with 
the  plume  of  green  and  scarlet  had  been  sheared  from  his 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  391 

head  by  a  glancing  sword-cut — lifting  a  war-flushed  fore- 
head to  the  sky  all  sunset-red.  Then  a  mortal  lance-thrust 
reached  him  over  the  body  that  lay  across  his  horse's 
withers,  and  he  reeled  upon  his  saddle,  and  fell  backward, 
partly  swathed  in  the  Flag  for  which  so  many  heroes  have 
died. 

Through  the  tricolored  folds  yet  other  Uhlan  lance- 
points  reached  him.  Did  any  thought  of  his  daughter  pass 
through  the  brain  of  the  dying  soldier  between  the  sharp 
pangs  of  the  probing  steel? 

"My  child  .  .  .  safe  .  .  .  neutral  territory.  .  .  .  Charles 
.  .  .  honest  man  .  .  .  protect  my  girl  from  Adelaide! 
Now  .  .  .  death!  Ah  I — agony!  Save,  Jesu!  .  .  .  Mary, 
help!" 

A  few  of  his  gallant  Chasseurs  surrendered.  But  these 
were  only  a  handful.  Nearly  the  whole  strength  of  his 
brigade  of  three  regiments  lay  dead  upon  that  patch  of 
common  that  was  cumbered  with  their  corpses  and  those  of 
their  enemies. 


XLV 

BISMARCK  said,  lowering  his  binoculars: 

"Lucky  that  war  is  so  confoundedly  expensive.  Other- 
wise, one  might  get  too  fond  of  it ! " 

The  King  groaned: 

"My  Dragoons  of  the  Guard! — my  Uhlans,  slaughtered 
in  regiments!  My  infantry  shattered — decimated — anni- 
hilated in  Divisions.  The  bravest  blood  of  France — poured 
out  upon  French  soil  like  water.  .  .  .  Great  God! — how 
shall  I  defend  this  carnage  to  the  Queen?  ..." 

The  voice  behind  him  said,  ironically : 

"My  wife  writes  me  ten  pages  every  three  days,  urging 
upon  me  in  Biblical  language  the  necessity  for  complete 
extermination  of  everything  French!  Believe  me,  Sire, 
he  who  is  guided  by  the  advice  of  a  woman  follows,  not  a 
Jack,  but  a  Jinny  o'  Lantern,  that  will  inevitably  lead 
him  into  a  bog ! ' ' 

The  King  winced  under  the  gibe,  yet  he  said,  striking 
his  clenched  hand  passionately  upon  his  knee : 

"And  this  shadow  that  we  follow  southward,  this  vision, 
of  a  Crown  Imperial !  What  is  it  but  an  ignis  fatuus  that 


392  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

has  plunged  us  to  the  neck  in  the  morass  of  War?  If  the 
whole  Army  of  United  Germany  sink  down  in  the  death- 
sleep,  for  what  have  we  offered  up  the  sacrifice  ? ' ' 

The  answer  came,  prompt  and  authoritative: 

"Your  Majesty  may  leave  that  question  to  be  answered 
by  the  sons  of  these  men  who  lie  dead  about  us,  and  the 
sons  they  shall  in  their  time  beget.  If  your  Majesty's 
whole  army  must  be  sacrificed  to  insure  German  Unity,  let 
it  be  so,  in  the  name  of  Heaven ! ' ' 

The  King  tugged  again  at  his  white  side-whisker  and 
muttered  something  about  "sinful  ambition."  The  hand 
that  had  wrenched  the  curb  now  offered  sugar.  The 
voice  said,  mellowed  and  softened  to  persuasive  tender- 
ness: 

"I  have  served  a  great  King.  I  aim  to  serve  a  great 
Emperor.  If  my  ambition  be  sinful,  it  is  at  least  not  base  ! ' ' 

"Ah,  Otto!"  The  King  rose,  and  his  hard,  yellowish- 
hazel  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  they  met  the  Minister's. 
"You  have  no  argument  so  strong  as  your  disinterested- 
ness. For  even  your  bitterest  enemies  have  never  ques- 
tioned that!" 

Something  took  place  in  the  brain  behind  the  great  domed 
forehead  hidden  by  the  Cuirassier  cap,  the  fierce,  almost 
challenging  stare  sank  beneath  the  old  man's  tearful  look 
of  love.  The  Man  of  Iron  was  asking  himself:  "Am  I, 
then,  so  disinterested?  ...  If  I  am,  why  is  it  that  these 
words  have  power  to  gall  me  so?  Can  it  be  that  I  have 
my  price  as  well  as  others  ?  I  think  myself  repaid  in  Power 
for  what  other  Ministers  will  only  sell  for  gold. ' ' 

The  momentary  embarrassment  passed.  He  said,  point- 
ing to  one  of  those  long  blue  mounds  of  dead  infantry : 

"And  who  could  see  our  soldiers  advance  under  the  fire 
of  these  French  chassepots  ,and  the  terrible  mitrailleuses, 
and  doubt  that  they  have  understood  the  greatness  of  the 
issue  at  stake  Excuse  me  a  moment,  Sire!  .  .  .  What 
is  it,  Gotzow?" 

The  aide-de-camp,  in  the  full  uniform  of  the  Chancellor 's 
own  regiment  of  Cuirassiers,  was  white  as  his  own  coat. 
He  gulped  out: 

"Excellency,  I  am  charged  by  His  Highness,  Prince 
Augustus  of  Wiirttemberg,  Commander-in-Chief  of  the 
Prussian  Guard  Corps  ..." 

The  Chancellor 's  prominent  blue  eyes  lightened  so  fiercely 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  393 

upon  the  speaker  that  he  began  to  stammer  and  boggle  in 
his  speech: 

"Terrible  intelligence  .  .  .  only  just  received  by  His 
Highness.  .  .  .  Yesterday  Your  Excellency's  sons,  Count 
Herbert  and  Count  William,  were  in  the  general  cavalry 
charge  which  took  place  at  Mars  la  Tour  ..." 

The  great  soldierly  figure  standing  with  the  huge  spurred 
boots  apart,  the  hands  leaning  on  the  long  steel-hilted 
sword,  might  have  been  cast  in  iron  or  carved  in  granite 
for  all  the  emotion  conveyed  by  look  or  gesture.  The  voice 
said  stridently  and  harshly : 

' '  The  First  Dragoons  of  the  Guard  were  not  involved  in 
the  struggle.  Only  the  brigades  of  Von  Barby,  the  4th 
Westphalian  Cuirassiers,  the  10th  Hussars,  and  the  16th 
Dragoons. ' ' 

The  ghastly  aide  faltered,  perspiring  freely: 

"At  the  moment  of  General  von  Barby 's  charge,  it  has 
been  unfortunately  ascertained,  a  squadron  of  Prussian 
Guard  Dragoons  of  the  First  Regiment — returning  from  a 
patrol,  dashed  into  the  melee  ..." 

The  Chancellor  drew  a  sharp  breath,  but  stirred  not  a 
finger.  His  fierce  eyes,  staring  from  dark  pits  that  had 
suddenly  been  dug  round  them,  paralyzed  the  wretched 
bearer  of  the  tragic  intelligence.  He  asked  in  a  tone  that 
appalled  by  its  tranquillity : 

' '  Have  both  my  sons  been  killed  ? ' ' 

The  aide-de-camp  got  out  that  it  was  feared  so.  He  was 
thanked  and  charged  with  a  polite  message  to  the  Prince. 
As  he  saluted  and  retired,  lightened  of  his  tidings  of  an- 
guish, the  Minister  focused  his  binoculars  with  a  steady 
hand  upon  that  point  toward  the  northward  where  the  dark 
bulk  of  the  fortress  of  St.  Privat  loomed  on  a  hill-top 
covered  with  masses  of  troops  and  traversed  by  a  straight 
white,  poplar-bordered  road,  regularly  trenched  for  mus- 
ketry. He  said  in  the  same  tone  of  composure,  though  his 
set  face  and  the  hand  that  held  the  glasses  were  wet  as 
though  with  rain: 

"St.  Privat  still  resists.  General  Pape,  with  the 
Guard's  cavalry  and  the  Saxons,  will  find  their  work  cut 
out  for  them  in  driving  those  French  battalions  out  of  the 
village  below  the  hill." 

He  lowered  and  wiped  the  glasses  with  his  handkerchief. 
King  said  entreatingly,  laying  a  hand  upon  his  arm: 


394  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

"Go,  go!  Find  out  the  truth  about  your  sons,  Bis- 
marck. .  .  .  Leave  not  a  stone  unturned,  in  God's 
name ! ' ' 

Even  as  the  King  spoke,  German  drums  and  trumpets 
sounded  the  charge;  and  there  was  a  sudden  shifting  of 
masses  of  troops  in  the  direction  of  St.  Hubert.  Then  as 
a  wave  of  dark  blue  men  began  to  roll  out  from  the  deep 
woods  that  flanked  the  village  of  Gravelotte,  so  fierce  a 
storm  of  cannon  and  mitrailleuse  and  chassepot  began  to 
beat  about  their  heads  that  the  unseasoned  horses  of  the 
Princes  of  the  suite  kicked  and  plunged  and  the  Minister 
said: 

"It  would  be  wise  did  your  Majesty  remove  out  of  this 
neighborhood.  These  bon-bons  thrown  by  Frossard's  artil- 
lery are  coming  much  too  near. ' ' 

' '  I  will  ride  back — I  will  move  out  of  the  way, ' '  said  the 
old  man  in  great  agitation.  "But  you,  Bismarck! — you 
must  go  and  see  about  your  sons ! ' ' 

He  answered,  and  his  great  bloodshot  eyes  and  sagging 
jowl  were  more  than  ever  those  of  a  mastiff: 

"When  I  have  seen  your  Majesty  in  a  place  of  safety 
I  will  ask  your  permission  to  do  so." 

An  orderly  from  Steinmetz,  who  now  had  his  field  head- 
quarters at  St.  Hubert,  arrived  with  an  urgent  entreaty 
that  the  King  would  at  once  retire. 

The  horses  were  brought.  King  William  and  Von  Roon 
mounted.  The  Chancellor's  mare  had  been  sent  to  water; 
his  orderly  appeared  with  her  as  the  King's  party  rode  on. 
With  a  hasty  word  of  reproof  the  Minister  swung  his  great 
figure  into  the  saddle,  but  the  brawn  and  bone  of  his  beast 
had  not  carried  him  clear  of  the  threatened  spot  before  a 
retreating  wave  of  German  foot  and  horsemen  swept  over 
it,  followed  by  the  thundering  gallop  of  a  retreating 
battery. 

It  was  a  sauve-qui  pent,  caused  by  the  smashing  fire 
from  the  French  shrapnel  and  mitrailleuse  batteries,  and 
the  practice  of  the  French  riflemen  entrenched  at  the 
Moscow  Farm.  A  general  officer  rode  through  the  rout, 
laying  about  him  with  the  flat  of  his  drawn  sword  and 
swearing  horribly,  to  judge  by  his  bloodshot  eyes,  and 
purple  countenance. 

"Hares!  Gottverdammt!  hares!"  he  gasped  breathlessly, 
finding  himself  face  to  face  with  a  gigantic  officer  of 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  395 

Cuirassiers.  "A  thousand  pardons,  Excellency.  I  did 
not  at  once  recognize  you.  Surely  you  will  follow  his 
Majesty  to  the  rear?" 

"Willingly,"  said  the  Chancellor,  as  a  brace  of  French 
shells  exploded,  digging  pits  in  the  sandy  ground  over 
which  the  Headquarter  Staff  had  passed.  "Only,  as  shell 
does  not  fall  twice  in  the  same  place,  I  ain  waiting  to  make 
sure."  And,  with  a  knee-touch,  he  put  the  brown  mare 
into  her  stride. 

There  was  a  backward  surge  of  disorganized  infantry  as 
the  huge  beast  lifted  herself  over  the  yawning  craters. 
But  she  passed  through  the  press  by  the  bore  and  thrust  of 
her  great  shoulders,  and  the  beast  and  the  big  man  she 
carried  were  swallowed  up  in  the  roaring  dusk. 

Moltke,  the  bald-headed  war-eagle,  remained  brooding 
his  coign  of  observation  upon  the  verge  of  the  ridge 
south  of  Flavigny,  his  feathers  drooping,  his  shoulders 
hunched,  his  sharp,  hooked  beak  inclined  toward  his  breast ; 
his  red  eyes,  burning  with  the  battle-lust,  staring  fixedly 
from  under  the  wide,  hairless  brows. 

The  sun  sank  in  clouds  of  smoky  gold  and  crimson  over 
that  country  of  copses,  ravines,  ruddy  brown  farmhouses, 
and  white  villages.  Evening  came  down  and  dipped  her 
wings  in  billows  of  salt-tasting  gunpowder  smoke,  rose- 
tinged  above  and  beneath  by  the  reflection  from  the  red 
sky  and  the  red  earth.  The  green  Moselle  was  tinged  with 
blood.  Little  rivers  ran  blood,  streams  and  springs  became 
blood.  Wells  were  filled  with  blood,  as  in  old  time  under 
the  rod  of  the  Lawgiver  of  Israel,  and  still  the  battle 
raged  over  hill  and  valley,  common  and  highroad. 

Flavigny  village  still  smouldered,  Malmaison  was  burn- 
ing, houses  and  barns  at  Verneville  were  wrapped  in  roar- 
ing flames.  Yet  the  gunners  of  the  French  batteries  at 
Moscow,  Point  du  Jour,  La  Folie,  and  the  Quarries  of 
Amanvilliers  and  Kezerieulles,  continued  to  make  practice 
of  the  deadliest;  and  still  French  cavalry  charged  the 
Teuton's  dwindling  infantry-squares. 

Had  not  a  comparatively  fresh  and  vigorous  Prussian 
Army  Corps  dropped  in  at  the  crucial  moment  success  had 
hardly  crowned  the  arms  of  United  Germany.  They  had 
been  marching  every  day  since  they  quitted  the  Saar, 
those  solid-thewed  Pomeranians  of  the  2d  Corps,  but  at 


396  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Puxieux  they  had  cooked  and  eaten,  and  now  appeared 
like  giants  refreshed. 

Not  only  Steinmetz  rode  at  their  head,  with  their  com- 
mander Von  Fransecky,  but  the  Warlock  in  person  directed 
their  attack.  Battalions  that  had  retired  in  disorder  re- 
formed and  rushed  back  to  meet  afresh  the  brunt  of  battle. 
Wherever  the  red  eye  glittered  and  the  withered  finger 
pointed,  fresh  sAvarms  of  fierce  assailants  were  hurled 
against  the  dwindling  hosts  of  France. 

Down  came  the  dark,  and  now  St.  Privat  was  burning; 
the  village  under  the  lee  of  the  fort  was  burning — sending 
up  great  columns  of  livid  smoke  shot  with  licking  tongues 
of  flame.  The  day  was  over.  But  crackling  lines  of  fire 
outlined  the  position  of  the  rifle-trenches;  the  mitrailleuse 
batteries  still  spat  death  unwearyingly,  as  what  remained 
of  Bazaine's  Army  retired  in  comparative  safety  to  the 
Fortress  of  St.  Quentin  under  cover  of  that  fiery  screen. 

There  the  shattered  brigades  and  mutilated  divisions 
clung  like  swarming  wasps  "with  plenty  of  sting  in  them 
yet,"  said  Moltke,  "and  the  hive" — meaning  the  huge 
Fortress  of  Metz — "handy  in  their  rear.  But,  on  the 
whole,"  he  added,  "I  am  excellently  well  satisfied.  My 
calculations  have  worked  out  correctly.  Those  Pomera- 
nians of  the  Second  Corps  arrived  just  in  time!" 

And  the  veteran  galloped  joyously  as  a  young  trooper 
of  twenty-five  to  cheer  his  King  with  the  good  news. 

And  can  you  see  that  other  man,  to  whom  Emperors  and 
Kings  and  Ministers  referred  when  they  mentioned  Prussia, 
who  outwitted  nations  in  policy  and  made  wars  at  will, 
spurring  the  great  brown  mare  wildly  through  the  welter- 
ing darkness,  with  salt  drops  of  mortal  anguish  coursing 
down  his  granite  cheeks  ? 

"Bazaine's  right  has  been  turned  by  the  Saxons,  the 
Guards  have  smashed  his  center,  and  the  Pomeranians  of 
the  Second  Corps  have  taken  St.  Privat  and  forced  him  to 
retreat,  leaving  Germany  master  of  the  field.  Success  has 
crowned  beyond  hope  the  arms  of  the  Fatherland,  but 
where  are  the  sons  who  called  me  father?  ...  Is  this  Thy 
judgment  upon  one  through  whom  so  many  fathers  are 
sonless,  0  my  offended  God  ? ' ' 

Perhaps  he  groaned  forth  such  words  as  these,  as  he 
bucketed  the  great  brown  mare  through  the  perilous  dark- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  397 

ness,  over  roads  bestrewn  with  helmets,  swords,  and  cui- 
rasses, knapsacks,  talpacks,  forage-caps,  and  schakos, 
needle-guns,  and  chassepots,  and  camp  kettles,  as  well  as 
the  human  debris  of  War.  The  flare  of  a  lantern  tied  to 
and  swinging  from  one  of  the  great  steel  stirrups  threw  a 
treacherous  and  fitful  light  upon  his  road. 

Follow  him  as  he  ranged  from  camp  to  camp,  ques- 
tioning, investigating.  ...  It  was  black  night  and  raining 
heavily  when  a  gleam  of  hope  dawned  upon  the  man. 

The  cavalry  piquet-officer  who  had  given  the  clue  beheld 
the  great  brute  and  her  huge  rider  vanish  in  a  cloud  of 
their  own  steam.  A  furious  clatter  of  hoofs  came  back  out 
of  the  weltering  darkness,  as  the  flaring  lantern,  gyrating 
like  some  captive  fiend  at  the  end  of  its  tether,  dwindled 
to  a  dancing  will-o'-the-wisp  and  vanished,  the  officer  ex- 
claimed : 

"Kreuzdonnerwetter!  he  must  have  a  neck  like  other 
men.  Yet  he  rides  as  though  it  were  forged  of  tempered 
steel!" 

"Who  rides?  .  .  .  What  was  that?"  asked  a  brother 
officer,  waking  from  a  doze  of  exhaustion  beside  the  hissing 
logs  of  the  rain-beaten  watch-fire.  He  got  reply: 

' '  Only  the  Pomeranian  bear  ranging  in  search  of  his  lost 
cubs. ' '  He  added :  "I  was  able  to  tell  him  that  he  would 
find  the  eldest  of  them  at  the  field-hospital  of  Mariaville, 
upon  which  he  galloped  away  like  mad. ' ' 

"The  field-hospital  of  Mariaville"  proved  to  be  a  farm- 
house on  a  hill-top  near  the  battlefield  of  Mars  la  Tour. 
Candles  stuck  in  the  necks  of  empty  wine-bottles  revealed, 
through  the  open,  unblinded  windows,  the  figure  of  the 
surgeon  in  charge  and  those  of  his  orderly-assistants  pass- 
ing to  and  fro. 

' '  Have  you  a  Bismarck  here  ? ' ' 

The  stentorian  shout  from  the  yard  made  wounded  men 
turn  upon  their  improvised  pillows,  and  brought  the  head 
and  shoulders  of  the  bibbed  and  shirt-sleeved  surgeon 
thrusting  out  of  a  window  on  the  first  floor.  A  colloquy 
ensued  between  the  unseen  and  the  medical  officer.  Pres- 
ently the  arbitrary  voice  interrupted: 

"What  do  you  call  not  seriously  wounded,  man?  De- 
scribe the  sasualty  clearly,  without  professional  Latin,  or 
too  many  crack  jaw  words." 

The  dressers  winked  to  each  other  behind  the  back  of 


*98  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  surgeon.  He  said,  supporting  himself  with  one  hand 
against  the  crazy  window- frame  as  he  thrust  his  head  and 
shoulders  forth  into  the  dripping  darkness  and  gesticulated 
with  a  hand  that  held  a  probe : 

"Excellency,  your  elder  son  has  received  three  bullets. 
One  lodged  in  the  breast  of  his  tunic,  another  hit  his 
watch,  and  the  third  is  at  present  in  the  upper  part  of  his 
thigh.  I  was  about  to  place  the  patient  under  chloroform 
when  Your  Excellency 's  call  summoned  me  from  his  side. ' ' 

The  voice  said,  with  a  clang  of  anger  in  it : 

"You  should  not  have  left  him  had  it  been  the  King 
who  called.  Go  back  to  him  instantly.  I  am  coming  up." 

And  he  came  striding  in  his  great  boots  up  the  crazy 
one-flight  stair.  Ghastly  faces  of  wounded  soldiers  turned 
upon  their  pillows  of  straw  as  that  gigantic  figure  filled  up 
the  doorway.  His  shadow,  thrown  by  the  flaring  tallow- 
candle  flames,  loomed  portentously  on  the  whitewashed 
walls.  He  wore  no  cloak  or  overcoat  and  dripped  as  though 
he  had  swum,  not  ridden,  through  water  to  his  finding ;  the 
peak  of  his  field-cap  discharged  quite  a  little  deluge  upon 
his  son's  white  face  as  he  stooped  over  the  stretcher  where 
the  young  man  lay  and  touched  his  hand,  and  kissed  him 
on  the  cheek. 

"Never  mind.  Clean  water  does  no  hurt,"  he  said,  for 
he  had  drawn  out  his  handkerchief  to  wipe  the  splash  away, 
and  finding  it  soiled  with  dust  and  powder-grime  had  re- 
turned it  to  his  pocket. 

The  surgeon  returned : 

"I  wish  we  had  clean  water — it  would  be  above  price. 
But  all  the  springs  are  fouled  with  blood,  and  there  are 
dead  French  in  the  courtyard- well. " 

"They  must  be  got  out  and  the  well  cleansed,  if  pos- 
sible," said  the  Chancellor.  "Meanwhile,  a  temporary  sup- 
ply must  be  found.  ...  What  nourishment  have  you,  fit 
for  wounded  men  ? ' ' 

The  surgeon  responded,  busy  with  a  cotton-wool  chloro- 
form pad : 

"Nothing,  Excellency,  except  wine  and  a  little  Extract 
of  Liebig. " 

The  Chancellor  said  harshly: 

"Yet  this  appears  to  be  a  farm-house,  and  I  heard  the 
clucking  of  fowls  down  below ! ' ' 

The  surgeon,  who  was  a  bullet-headed,  obstinate  East 


399 

Prussian,  and  did  not  relish  this  sort  of  hectoring,  returned, 
thrusting  out  a  stubbly  under- jaw : 

"Excellency,  there  are  certainly  fowls  in  the  farmyard. 
But  they  are  not  mine,  nor  have  I  money  to  buy.  They 
belong  to  the  unhappy  wretch  who  owns  this  place,  and 
has  lost  everything  else." 

And  he  gave  back  the  stare  of  the  fierce  eyes  that  raked 
him.  The  Minister  began  to  lisp,  an  ominous  sign : 

' '  Ah,  indeed !  .  .  .  May  I — may  I  ask  where  you — where 
you  gained  your  notions  of  the  code  of  ethics  that  should 
prevail  in  warfare?" 

Said  the  surgeon,  fronting  him  fairly  and  squarely : 

"Excellency,  from  my  father,  who  was  an  honest  man!" 

Straw  rustled  under  heads  that  slewed  to  look  at  the 
blunt  speaker.  There  was  a  long  instant's  pause.  Then 
the  Chancellor  thrust  his  hand  into  his  breeches-pocket, 
pulled  out  a  gold  coin,  and  said,  tendering  it  to  the  medical 
officer : 

"Kindly  pay  this  to  the  object  of  your  pity  for  twenty 
fowls  at  a  mark  apiece.  Now  I  will  keep  you  no  longer 
from  your  patient.  Good  night  to  everyone  here. ' ' 

' '  Good  night,  Excellency ! ' '  came  in  chorus. 

He  gave  his  brusque  salute  and  had  already  reached  the 
threshold,  when  his  son,  a  colossal,  black-haired,  brown- 
skinned  young  trooper,  who  lay  back  upon  his  stretcher, 
staring  sulkily  at  the  smoke-blackened  rafters,  or  contem- 
plating the  twitching  bare  toes  of  the  leg  that  bore  a 
tourniquet  above  the  plugged  and  bandaged  wound,  started 
slightly,  looked  round,  and  called: 

"Father!" 

"What  is  it,  my  dear  fellow?" 

His  great  stride  took  him  back  to  the  prone  young  giant 
on  the  stretcher.  Count  Herbert  said,  barely  removing  his 
eyes  from  the  ceiling,  and  speaking  in  a  studiously  indif- 
ferent tone : 

"If  you  are  upset  about  Bill,  sir,  there's  no  need  to 
worry.  His  horse  was  shot  under  him,  but  he  got  hold  of 
another.  I  saw  him  ride  off  all  right  with  a  wounded 
comrade  behind  him.  That 's  all.  Good  night ! ' ' 

The  son  nodded  surlily  and  resumed  his  inspection  of 
the  ceiling.  The  sire,  who  had  received  the  news  in  silence, 
went  out  at  the  door,  stooping  under  the  lintel,  his  great 
shoulders  rasping  the  posts  on  either  side.  They  heard  his 


400  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

heavy  footsteps  pass  down  the  crazy  staircase.  A  curt  sen- 
tence or  two  reached  them,  spoken  as  he  went  through  the 
kitchen  on  his  way  to  the  door.  Then  he  was  in  the  yard, 
loudly  calling  for  an  orderly  to  bring  a  lantern.  An  in- 
stant, and  three  revolver-shots  cracked  in  rapid  succession, 
each  followed  by  a  significant  cackling  and  squawking. 
The  surgeon,  now  fitting  the  cotton-wool  pad  upon  the  wire 
mouthpiece  and  signing  to  his  assistant  to  hand  him  the 
chloroform,  clapped  the  pad  upon  the  mouth  and  nostrils 
of  young  Bismarck,  and  said,  with  a  dry  chuckle  as  he 
poured  the  pungent  anaesthetic  upon  the  wool : 

"His  Excellency  is  having  a  little  sport.  All  the  same, 
without  water,  one  cannot  cleanse  wounds  or  boil  hen- 
broth." 

Water  arrived  an  hour  later,  two  barrelsful  upon  a 
hand-cart  drawn  by  terrified  peasants,  behind  whom  rode  a 
trooper  of  Uhlans,  accelerating  their  movements  with  prods 
of  the  lance.  A  general  officer  had  sent  the  barrels  for 
the  use  of  the  wounded  at  Mariaville.  This  service  ren- 
dered to  his  son,  he  rode  in  search  of  his  King. 


XLYI 

HE  found  him,  with  his  Staff,  not  far  distant  from  Rezon- 
ville,  having  returned  there  when  the  French  cavalry  of 
the  Left  withdrew  after  their  tremendous  charge.  The 
King  was  reading  dispatches,  seated  on  a  saddle  thrown 
across  a  wet  faggot,  beside  a  smoky  watch-fire.  The  farm- 
stead of  Malmaison,  now  sending  up  showers  of  sparks 
like  a  set-piece  at  the  end  of  a  display  of  fireworks,  gave 
light  enough  by  which  to  read. 

Persuaded  to  take  shelter,  the  old  man  found  it  in  a 
deserted  hamlet,  of  which  the  very  name  was  uncertain, 
so  sorely  had  it  been  mauled  about.  A  crust  of  stale  bread 
and  a  mutton-chop  grilled  on  some  wood  embers  furnished 
his  supper.  Water  fit  for  drinking  being  unattainable,  he 
tossed  off  a  nip  of  sutler 's  rum  out  of  a  broken  tulip-glass, 
and  lay  down  in  his  clothes  to  rest  upon  the  royal  ambu- 
lance, within  four  walls  and  under  a  roof  holed  and  gapped 
by  shot  and  shell. 


THE    MAN    OF.  IRON  401 

The  Princes  of  the  Suite,  much  to  their  Highnesses' 
chagrin,  were  compelled  to  subsist  on  fragments  of  stale 
sandwiches  from  their  holster-cases.  The  escort  bivouacked 
about  the  Royal  lodging.  Troops,  wearied  to  exhaustion 
by  the  two  days'  continuous  fighting,  lay  down  to  sleep  in 
the  pouring  rain. 

The  "Warlock  supped  with  his  personal  Staff  on  ration- 
biscuit  and  raw  bacon,  and  spent  the  night  by  a  bivouac- 
fire,  among  the  living  and  the  dead.  Can  you  see  him 
sitting  on  the  empty  ammunition-box,  buttoned  in  his  drip- 
ping waterproof,  his  scanty  meal  eaten  and  his  cigar  well 
alight?  .  .  .  How  contentedly  he  listens  while  the  bulbul 
Henry  sings,  without  notes  of  accompaniment,  his  moving 
ballads.  How  piously  he  rises,  bares  his  old  head,  and  joins 
in  the  robust  hymn  sung  by  his  battered  but  victorious 
legions,  ' '  Now  thank  we  all  our  God  ..." 

Or,  with  the  mind's  eye,  one  can  follow  the  Man  of  Iron 
as,  having  bidden  his  master  good  night  and  left  the  young 
Hereditary  Grand  Duke  of  Mecklenburg  to  keep  guard  over 
the  royal  carriage,  he  set  out,  in  company  of  his  cousin 
Bismarck-Bohlen,  a  lieutenant  of  Dragoon  Guards  and  one 
of  the  minor  Councillors  of  the  Embassy,  in  search  of  a 
lodging  until  break  of  day. 

Sheridan,  the  famous  American  General,  representing 
the  United  States  with  the  Prussian  Headquarters  Staff,  a 
short,  alert  gentleman  of  forty-five,  with  a  dark  mustache 
and  chin-tuft,  and  a  pronounced  Yankee  twang,  followed, 
begging  leave  to  accompany  the  expedition.  The  first  cot- 
tage approached  as  likely  to  afford  a  night's  shelter  was 
found  to  be  on  fire. 

' '  Too  hot,  though  I  like  warm  quarters ! ' '  the  Chancellor 
commented.  The  next  house  was  found  crammed  with 
wounded  soldiers,  all  suffering  from  the  excellent  shell- 
practice  made  by  the  gunners  of  General  Frossard.  The 
next  house  and  the  next  had  also  been  converted  into  field- 
hospitals.  Th.e  fourth  yielded  to  the  Minister's  personal 
investigations  a  vacant  attic,  with  three  truckle-beds,  pro- 
vided with  straw  palliasses,  tolerably  clean. 

Sheridan  and  Bismarck-Bohlen  threw  themselves  upon 
their  rude  beds  and  very  soon  were  soundly  sleeping.  For 
a  little  while  the  Man  of  Iron  stood  beside  the  narrow  un- 
glazed  window  in  the  attic  gable,  his  great  arms  folded  on 


£02  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

his  broad  breast,  his  eyes,  bloodshot  and  strained  with  gaz- 
ing through  the  fire  and  smoke  of  bombardments,  looking 
out  into  the  wild  black  welter  of  the  rainy  night. 

Those  torn-up  pastures  and  plow-acres,  those  devas- 
tated cornfields  and  woodlands,  those  burning  farms  and 
villages  of  Lorraine  lay  in  comparative  quiet  now.  .  .  . 
The  hellish  roar  and  crash  and  tumult  of  War  had  ceased 
for  the  time  being.  Its  ghastly  sights  were  veiled,  for  the 
most  part,  by  merciful  darkness,  though  the  innumerable 
little  sputtering  fires  kindled  by  the  soldiers  threw  fitful 
illuminations  upon  grotesque,  or  strange,  or  terrible,  or 
indescribably  hideous  things.  .  .  . 

Hungry,  thirsty,  weary,  and  saddle-sore  as  any  trooper  of 
his  own  "White  Cuirassiers  was  the  Man  of  Iron,  having 
broken  his  fast  at  dawn  upon  a  hunch  of  bread  and  bacon- 
fat,  and  supped  upon  a  couple  of  raw  hen's  eggs,  broken 
on  the  pommel  of  his  big  steel-hilted  sword.  But  as  his 
bloodshot  eyes  looked  upon  his  handiwork,  he  was  con- 
tented. This  huge,  vehement,  and  bloody  conflict  had  es- 
tablished the  mastery  of  Germany:  France  was  outnum- 
bered, out-generaled,  and  out-fought. 

With  frightful  loss  Moltke  had  attained  his  premier 
object.  The  Army  of  MacMahon  had  been  driven  in  rout  to 
Chalons,  the  retreat  of  Bazaine  's  Army  westward  had  been 
effectually  checked.  The  South  road  from  Metz  to  Verdun, 
hitherto  lightly  held  by  the  advance-patrols  of  the  Prus- 
sian Crown  Prince,  was  now  blocked  by  the  whole  effective 
strength  of  two  out  of  the  three  armies  of  Germany ;  weak- 
ened, wounded,  and  bleeding  after  the  two  days  of  desper- 
ate fighting,  but  still  powerful,  menacing,  and  grim. 

One  desperate  effort  made  at  this  juncture  might  have 
broken  through  the  barrier  of  living  flesh  and  steel.  Would 
it  be  made,  or  would  the  French  Army  of  the  Rhine  fall 
into  the  snare  so  cunningly  left  open,  and  retire  within 
the  fortified  area  of  Metz? 

The  gable-attic  looked  toward  the  great  fortress.  In  vain 
his  glasses  swept  the  formless  blackness.  The  sparkle  of  a 
moonbeam  on  a  bayonet-point — the  green  or  crimson  ray  cast 
by  a  Staff  lantern  moving  over  the  ground,  yet  screened  by 
the  French  batteries,  might  have  cleared  the  point  in  doubt. 
Save  for  the  sputter  of  German  watch-fires  over  the  recent 
field  of  battle,  and  the  yellow  candle-flare  in  the  windows  of 
half-ruined  cottages  and  outbuildings,  where  wounded  men 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  403 

lay  on  straw  or  the  bare  earth,  no  light  showed,  no  life 
seemed  to  be.  ...  He  swung  the  shattered  casement  wide, 
and  thrust  his  head  out,  gripping  the  window-sill,  intently 
listening.  .  .  .  No  distant  roll  of  iron-shod  wheels,  no  re- 
verberating tread  of  countless  footsteps;  no  other  sounds, 
such  as  might  betray  the  retreating  movement  of  an  armed 
host,  broke  the  silence  of  that  tragic  night. 

Only  the  sob  of  the  wind  and  the  dripping  of  the  chill 
rain  from  the  overflowing  roof-gutters,  came  to  him,  with 
the  deep  ruckling  snores  of  exhausted  Divisions,  and  the 
strangling  coughs  and  hollow  groans  of  mangled  and  dying 
men  and  beasts. 

All  would  be  well,  he  told  himself,  as  he  shut  up  the 
glasses,  unbuckled  his  sword-belt,  and  unhooking  his  collar 
stretched  himself  in  his  great  boots  upon  the  groaning 
truckle-bed,  his  heavy  revolver  ready  to  his  hand.  Moltke's 
great  plan  would  be  successful.  .  .  .  The  King  would  once 
more  prove  his  Chancellor  a  true  prophet.  .  .  .  The  hand 
that  could  build  up  Prussia  from  a  fourth-rate  State  into 
a  world-power,  would  yet  hold  the  German  Empire  in  its 
grip  of  iron,  and  through  that  Empire  rule  the  world ! 

If  He  Who  created  the  World  had  been  displeased  by 
Bismarck's  ambitions,  things  would  have  gone  less  smoothly 
from  the  outset.  ...  If  He  Who  wrought  Man  in  His 
Image  had  been  moved  to  wrath  by  all  this  bloodshed,  He 
would  have  shown  it  by  letting  something  happen  to  the 
boys.  .  .  . 

But  Bill  was  safe,  while  Herbert  was  only  slightly 
wounded.  To-morrow  he  should  be  brought  back  to  the 
hospital  at  Pont  a  Mousson  and  thence  invalided  home. 

Reverting  to  Bill,  secretly  the  father's  idol,  in  whose 
person  he  saw  his  own  lost  youth  renewed,  the  Chancellor 
smiled  now,  painting  in  imagination  on  the  darkness  a  pic- 
ture of  that  charge  of  the  French  square  at  Mars  la  Tour. 
According  to  Herbert,  who  had  put  the  thing  badly,  Bill 
had  had  his  horse  shot,  and  jumped  on  another,  taking  a 
comrade  behind  him  as  he  rode  off  the  field. 

A  fine  story  to  write  home  to  the  boy 's  mother.  .  .  .  How 
her  deep  eyes  would  glow  and  kindle  as  she  read.  .  .  .  An 
exploit  with  which  to  dazzle  fat  Borck,  hated  keeper  of 
the  King's  Privy  Purse.  .  .  .  Nor  must  one  omit  to  em- 
body the  incident  in  the  next  official  communication  penned 
to  Count  Bernstorff,  Prussian  Ambassador  in  London,  who 


404  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

would  be  sure  to  retail  it  to  some  Lady-in- Waiting  possess- 
ing the  ear  of  the  Queen.  Lastly,  what  a  magnificent  anec- 
dote for  the  convivial  stage  of  a  Foreign  Office  Staff  din- 
ner, or  an  official  banquet,  related  with  spirit  garnished 
with  exaggerations  of  the  pardonable  harmless  kind.  In- 
deed, with  such  embellishments  he  subsequently  related  the 
slight  episode,  proving  himself  capable  of  the  very  folly  of 
paternal  tenderness.  The  picture  cropped  up  constantly 
among  his  dreams  on  this  wild  night  of  Gravelotte.  And 
when  the  wan-faced  Dawn  peeped  shuddering  between  her 
blood-stained  curtains,  and  the  reveille  sounded,  waking  the 
living  from  their  sleep  among  the  dead,  so  that  their  hag- 
gard uprising  seemed  as  though  in  answer  to  the  trump  of 
the  Archangel  of  the  Resurrection — he  heaved  his  giant's 
frame  from  the  squalid  bed  to  learn,  with  a  savage  thrill 
of  exultation,  that  Bazaine  had  fallen  into  the  trap. 

In  the  dead  of  night,  behind  the  screen  of  the  unsilenced 
French  batteries  yet  emplaced  behind  the  high-walled 
farms  of  Montigny  la  Grange,  La  Folie,  and  from  thence  ta 
Point  du  Jour,  the  bleeding  Army  of  the  Rhine  had  re- 
treated to  the  treacherous  shelter  offered  beneath  the  guns 
of  Metz. 

Said  the  "Warlock,  smiling  in  his  sunniest  manner  as  he 
made  his  hasty  morning  toilet  in  the  shelter  of  a  baggage- 
wagon  tilt: 

"Three  French  Marshals  are  twittering  in  this  birdcage 
on  the  Moselle — one  Army  has  been  shut  up  with  them. 
Another  yet  remains  at  large,  with  Paris  and  the  huge  re- 
sources of  France  in  rear  of  it."  He  paused  to  absorb  a 
pinch  of  snuff  and  extract  a  clean  white  shirt  from  a  small 
and  shabby  japanned  tin  field-case,  then  added:  "A 
France  on  the  point  of  Revolution — an  Army  commanded 
by  MacMahon,  who  has  been  badly  beaten,  and  has  that  Old 
Man  of  the  Sea,  the  Third  Napoleon,  sitting  on  his  back 
wherever  he  goes ! ' '  He  put  on  the  shirt  and  emerged  from 
temporary  obscurity  to  finish.  "If  the  spirits  of  the  just 
be  permitted  knowledge  of  earthly  matters,  my  beloved 
wife  Mary  is  pleased  with  her  old  man!" 

And  he  equipped  himself  in  his  old  war-harness,  and 
crowned  his  old  wig  with  his  battered  war-helm,  and  got  on 
his  fine  charger  and  rode  off  to  meet  and  confer  with  his 
King,  the  Chancellor,  and  the  War  Minister,  and  issue  in- 
structions to  his  Chiefs  of  the  various  Staffs,  trolling  even 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  405 

less  tunefully  than  usual,  another  verse  of  his  favorite 
song : 

"And  knew  they,  the  shining  stars  above  me, 

Of  the  bitterness  of  my  woe, 
They  would  come  down  and  bid  her  love  me, 
Pleading:   'Ah!  do  not  scorn  him  so!'  " 


XLVII 

RUMOR  had  it  that  the  King,  the  Chancellor,  Roon,  the 
Royal  Staff,  and  the  Tinsel  Rabble,  with  the  escort  of  red, 
blue,  and  green  Hussars,  Guard-Dragoons  and  Uhlans,  had 
ridden  toward  Flavigny. 

The  Warlock  placidly  followed,  traversing  the  battlefield 
near  Rezonville.  Here  bearer-parties  of  the  German  Ambu- 
lance Service,  with  Red  Cross  helpers,  Knights  of  St.  John, 
volunteers  and  French  and  German  surgeons  wearing  the 
Geneva  badge,  were  now  arriving;  and  some  progress  had 
already  been  made  in  the  gigantic  task  of  separating  the 
wounded  from  the  dead. 

The  Iron  Chancellor  was  found  here,  attended  by  his 
shadow,  Bismarck-Bohlen,  sometimes  dubbed  "The  Little 
Cousin,"  other  whiles  "The  Twopenny  Roue,"  according 
to  the  humor -of  his  powerful  relative.  The  Minister  was 
glancing  through  the  morning 's  letters,  his  cousin  was  read- 
ing him  extracts  from  the  Daily  Telegraph,  a  parcel  of 
English  papers  having  arrived.  Hard  by,  squads  of  fa- 
tigue-men, aided  by  bloused  peasants,  were  working  to  fin- 
ish the  second  of  two  parallel  trenches,  in  length  some  three 
hundred  feet,  near  which  had  been  collected  a  huge  mass 
of  French  and  German  corpses,  many  half -naked,  the  ma- 
jority of  them  still  in  uniform.  Carts  lumbering  up  with 
fresh  loads  to  discharge  continually,  augmented  the  terrible 
mound  of  bodies,  a  huge  percentage  hideously  displaying 
the  effects  of  shell-fire,  many  in  the  initial  stages  of  de- 
composition, hastened  by  the  sweltering  and  oppressive 
heat. 

Soldiers  went  about  with  huge  canvas  sacks,  filling  these 
with  zinc  identification-tags  taken  from  the  necks  of  their 
dead  comrades,  gathering  a  harvest  of  watches  and  purses, 
the  former  sometimes  of  such  value,  and  the  latter  occa- 


406  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

sionally  so  well-filled  with  French  money  as  to  suggest 
that  they  had  previously  been  taken  from  the  dead. 

"  Acli  Gott!"  the  perplexed  officer  of  Pioneers  in  superin- 
tendence of  the  trenching-party  kept  saying :  ' '  More,  more, 
and  still  more.  .  .  .  What  is  one  to  do  with  so  many  dead 
men?" 

Some  utterance  of  this  kind  reaching  the  ears  of  the 
Chancellor,  he  turned  in  his  saddle  and  called  to  the  officer : 

' '  Your  trench  is  too  deep,  sir,  and  not  half  wide  enough. 
Three  feet  is  sufficient.  Lay  them  in  as  cooks  dispose 
herrings  in  oil-pickte,  across  in  layers  and  not  singly  and 
lengthways — labor  and  space  will  be  economized  thus." 

' '  Alas,  Excellency ! ' '  protested  the  officer,  ' '  will  not  such 
a  method  be  very  unwholesome  ?  The  churchyard  at  Flau- 
ville  is  already  raised  four  feet  above  the  pavement  of  the 
church." 

"Let  them  lay  on  fresh  dead,"  said  the  Chancellor,  smil- 
ing grimly,  "and  stop  when  they  reach  to  the  level  of  the 
window-sills.  Thus  our  good  fellows  will  be  able  to  listen  to 
the  Cure 's  Sunday  address.  Meanwhile,  bury  thick. ' '  He 
added,  as  Moltke  rode  up,  pointing  to  the  ground  now  trod- 
den into  mud  and  littered  with  French  schakos  and  kepis, 
Prussian  helmets  and  schapkas,  knapsacks,  arms,  under- 
clothing, accouterments,  brushes,  razors,  and  shoes :  ' '  Would 
not  one  call  this  'Death's  Rag  Fair'?"  He  added  as  the 
wind,  blowing  over  a  battery  of  dead  horses,  brought  with 
it  an  odor  that  made  the  senses  reel:  "Or  'Death's  Per- 
fumery Shop'  would  be  as  appropriate  a  title.  ...  I  must 
advise  the  King  not  to  breathe  this  atmosphere  longer,  fast- 
ing. It  might  result  in  dysentery." 

Moltke  agreed,  expanding  his  thin  nostrils :  ' '  Truly,  the 
effluvium  is  exceedingly  bad ! ' ' 

"Hypocrite!"  said  the  Chancellor,  openly  laughing. 
"Do  we  not  all  know  that  the  bouquet  of  a  battle-field  cov- 
ered with  slain  enemies  is  sweeter  to  you  than  November 
violet-blooms." 

"Both  may  be  agreeable,"  said  the  old  war-eagle,  "in 
different  fashion ;  as  the  partition  of  a  conquered  province, 
and  the  dismemberment  of  a  truffled  capon  might  afford 
pleasure  of  two  kinds  to  Your  Excellency. ' ' 

Said  Bismarck,  as  his  cousin  reined  back  and  joined  the 
modest  personal  staff  of  Moltke,  following  at  some  distance 
in  the  rear  of  thefCommander-in-Chief : 


THE    MAN   OF    IKON  407 

"I  prefer  the  first,  if  the  second  appeals  to  my  empty 
stomach.  Though  we  must  not  sell  the  bear's  skin  before 
we  have  killed  the  bear!" 

He  went  on,  patting  the  sweating  neck  of  the  brown 
mare,  who  had  winced  and  started  as  yet  another  dead-cart 
shot  out  its  dreadful  load  to  windward.  .  .  . 

' '  The  King  has  been  in  favor  of  keeping  the  country  up 
to  the  Marne.  I  have  yet  another  idea,  which  may  be  too 
Utopian  to  realize.  A  kind  of  German  colony — a  neutral 
State  of  eight  or  ten  million  inhabitants,  free  from  the  con- 
scription, and  whose  taxes  should  flow  to  Berlin.  France 
would  thus  lose  a  district  from  whence  she  draws  her  best 
soldiers — one  would  cut  her  claws  thus ! ' ' 

Said  Moltke,  his  clear  eyes  narrowing  in  merry  wrinkles : 

' '  And  draw  her  teeth  as  well ! ' ' 

The  Chancellor  went  on : 

' '  That  the  annexation  of  the  piece  of  territory  will  give 
jaundice  to  the  French  is  a  matter  of  no  consequence.  Re- 
venge should  be  made  impossible.  Even  without  annexation 
we  must  render  them  permanently  harmless  before  we  risk 
their  bite.  The  surrender  of  the  eastern  fortresses  of 
France  can  alone  serve  our  purpose.  We  have  bought 
them  with  the  best  of  our  German  blood ! ' ' 

Agreed  the  Warlock:  "Many  noble  Prussian  families 
will  be  plunged  in  mourning.  Wesdehlen  and  Keuss,  We- 
dell  and  Finkenstein  have  been  killed — Rahden  is  most 
grievously  wounded,  and  a  whole  crowd  of  officers  com- 
manding regiments  or  battalions  are  either  badly  hurt  or 
dead.  I  can  but  thank  Divine  Providence  that  I  have  suf- 
fered no  personal  bereavement. ' ' 

"I  echo  your  thanksgiving,"  responded  the  Minister, 
' '  though  some  pints  of  my  own  blood  have  vicariously  been 
shed." 

"I  had  heard — I  had  heard  somewhat,  but  feared  to 
touch  upon  the  matter,"  said  the  Warlock.  "With  the 
younger  olive-branch  they  tell  me  all  is  well ! ' ' 

The  Chancellor  answered,  stammering  slightly  and  look- 
ing straight  in  the  other 's  eyes : 

"Bill  rode  off  the  field  in  safety,  carrying  two  unhorsed 
comrades  out  of  the  leaden  hailstorm,  one  in  each  stirrup, 
Cossack-fashion,  and  accommodating  a  th — a  third  on  the 
crupper  of  his  horse ! ' ' 

"Ei — ei!    I  had  not  heard  these  interesting  particulars, " 


408  THE    MA1ST    OF    IRON 

exclaimed  Moltke,  raising  his  hairless  brows  in  apparent 
astonishment.  "I  did  not  know  the  brave  young  man  had 
distinguished  himself  so  much!  The  Countess  will  over- 
flow with  pride  and  gratitude.  .  .  .  She  writes  regularly, 
I  think  Your  Excellency  told  me  ?  Naturally  she  would  be 
solicitous  for  your  health." 

' '  I  had  a  letter  from  her  yesterday, ' '  returned  Bismarck, 
' '  in  which  she  mingles,  in  equal  doses,  stern  admonition  and 
affectionate  advice.  Thus,  I  am  to  avoid  the  French  wines, 
which  are  known  to  be  gout-provoking,  and  be  sure  to  re- 
turn in  time  for  the  celebration  of  pur  wedding-day.  .  .  . 
While,  remembering,  however  strongly  Paris  may  be  forti- 
fied, that  the  walls  of  Jericho  fell  down  when  the  trumpets 
of  Joshua  were  sounded — I  am  to  give  Your  Excellency  no 
peace,  '  until  the  modern  Babylon  is  utterly  destroyed. '  J 

' '  Ha,  ha,  ha ! "  The  "Warlock  laughed  with  boyish  merri- 
ment, until  the  water  stood  in  his  clear,  keen  eyes.  "Her 
Excellency,  as  I  have  often  told  thee,  Otto,  possesses  a  per- 
sonality of  the  antique  order.  She  is  of  the  breed  of  Judith 
and  Zenobia.  ...  I  would  also  say  Boadicea,  but  for  the 
Countess's  known  antipathy  to  the  British  race.  So  we 
are  to  destroy  Paris,  and  what  of  the  Bonapartes  and  Bour- 
bons and  Orleans?  .  .  .  Have  we,  then,  no  cut-and-dried 
instructions  as  to  what  is  to  be  done  with  these?" 

The  Chancellor  returned,  with  immovable  gravity  of 
tone  and  feature,  belied  by  the  amusement  dancing  in  his 
eyes: 

"We  are  to  purge  France  of  the  whole  lot  of  them. 
Though — supposing  the  Prince  Imperial  were  to  complete 
his  education  at  a  German  University,  and  thus  attain  to 
manhood  surrounded  by  German  influences — Monseigneur 
Lulu  might  one  day  become  a  subaltern  in  our  Prussian 
Army — subsequently  to  completion  of  the  customary  period 
of  service  in  the  ranks ! ' ' 

' '  Capital.  Her  Excellency  is  indeed  a  woman  in  a  thou- 
sand." And  Moltke  fairly  rocked  in  his  saddle  with  laugh- 
ter, finally  having  recourse  to  the  frayed  cuff  of  his  old 
uniform  field-frock  for  the  mopping  of  his  overflowing  eyes. 
"Thou  must  paint  for  the  King,"  he  gasped,  "that  picture 
of  Lulu  as  a  Prussian  private  soldier.  Do  not  fail  to  tell 
him — it  will  be  sure  to  make  him  laugh. ' ' 

Said  the  Chancellor,  shrugging  his  great  shoulders : 

"He  has  ridden  with  Von  Boon  and  the  Tinsel  Rabble 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  409 

in  the  direction  of  Flavigny,  where  the  French  bombard- 
ment so  greatly  endangered  him  yesterday.  Von  Roon  will 
be  pouring  into  the  royal  ear  dismal  details  of  our  losses, 
which  are  to  be  estimated  for  the  Berlin  newspapers  at 
something  under  twenty  thousand,  including  officers." 

' '  Seventy  thousand  would  be  nearer  the  mark, ' '  said  the 
"Warlock  placidly.  "Nor  do  I  regard  it  as  a  heavy  price 
for  such  a  victory  as  we  have  won.  Roon,  however,  is  not 
to  be  envied  an  unpleasant  duty,  which,  for  my  own  part, 
I  prefer,  when  possible,  to  leave  to  other  mouths  than 
mine." 

And  leaving  the  battle-field  they  struck  into  a  road  in  a 
cutting  leading  east  toward  Flavigny,  and  bordered  with 
cottages  shattered  and  scorched  by  shell-fire,  most  of  them 
standing  in  gardens  gay  with  dahlias,  sunflowers,  snap- 
dragons, marigolds,  lavender,  and  phlox.  Every  house  that 
boasted  a  roof  was  full  of  wounded  French  and  German 
soldiers,  most  of  them  lying  on  bare  boards  or  earthen 
floors.  Oaths  and  cries  of  anguish  came  from  kitchens  that 
in  virtue  of  their  solid  tables  had  been  converted  into 
operating  theaters ;  ambulance-assistants  emptied  buckets  of 
ensanguined  water  over  the  gaily-colored  flower-beds,  while 
bare-armed  surgeons,  in  blood-stained  aprons,  came  to  the 
doors  every  other  moment  to  cool  themselves,  or  fill  their 
lungs  with  draughts  of  cleaner  air. 

"It  is  sad  to  see  all  this  suffering, ' '  remarked  the  Chan- 
cellor, ' '  or  would  be,  did  one  not  know  it  unavoidable ! ' ' 

Said  the  Warlock,  smiling  cheerfully: 

"Blood  and  wounds,  dying  men  and  dead  men,  are  the 
inseparable  concomitants  of  War.  One  takes  them  then  as 
natural,  and  pays  no  heed  to  them.  Did  armies  fight  with 
truncheons  of  sausages,  and  dumplings  stuffed  with  plums 
instead  of  iron  shells  full  of  shrapnel,  there  would  still  be 
deaths  in  plenty. ' ' 

The  Chancellor  said,  laughing  heartily : 

' '  And  the  Field  equipment  of  our  Army  surgeons  would 
consist  of  calomel  and  rhubarb-pills.  Here  now  are  a  col- 
lection of  soaked  macaws  and  paroquets.  The  fine  feathers 
of  the  Napoleon 's  Guard  Imperial  have  suffered  badly  from 
last  night's  rain." 

In  two  fields  right  and  left  of  the  road  they  followed  were 
crowded  nearly  four  thousand  French  prisoners,  under 
a  heavy  guard  of  Mecklenburg  infantry.  The  Mecklen- 


410  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

burgers  were  drinking  their  morning  coffee  and  munching 
Army  bread  and  raw  ham  rations.  The  emerald,  pale  blue, 
and  scarlet  Imperial  Dragoons  and  Cuirassiers,  the  white- 
mantled,  red-fezzed  Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  the  green-coated 
Chasseurs  a  cheval,  the  gorgeous  Guides  and  Lancers,  the 
Voltigeurs,  and  the  red-breeched,  blue-coated  grenadiers  be- 
longing to  individual  regiments,  standing  as  if  in  the  ranks, 
or  lying  down  in  groups  upon  the  muddy  ground  where 
they  had  spent  the  last  night,  looked  with  hollow  eyes  of 
famine,  upon  their  munching  jailers,  but  disdained  to  ask 
for  food. 

"They  are  wet,"  said  Moltke,  "for  few  of  them  have  got 
their  greatcoats.  It  is  the  love  of  display  that  leads  the 
French  soldier  to  throw  away  what  extra  weight  of  cover- 
ing he  carries  when  he  is  in  the  thick  of  a  melee,  or  sud- 
denly called  upon  to  charge.  While  our  stout  fellows  will 
come  out  of  an  assault  with  what  they  carried  into  it. ' ' 

' '  Or  perhaps  a  little  more ! ' '  hinted  the  Chancellor. 

"It  may  be — it  may  be!"  admitted  the  Field  Marshal. 
"The  French  love  for  gold-carrying  is  the  cause  of  that 
enrichment.  Hence  most  of  their  Guard  Cavalry  officers 
carry  beneath  their  tunics  or  in  the  pockets  of  their  tight 
pantaloons  netted  purses  given  them  by  their  women,  that 
stick  out  in  a  tempting  style.  A  prod  of  our  German  lance, 
or  a  rip  from  the  bayonet,  and  out  pops  the  purse  into  the 
soldier's  fist.  You  would  not  call  him  a  thief  for  taking 
what  he  finds  in  this  manner?" 

"I  cannot  answer  for  myself,"  said  the  Chancellor,  turn- 
ing a  laughing  look  upon  the  speaker,  "but  I  can  safely 
predict  that  my  wife  would  exonerate  him  upon  Scriptural 
authority.  By  the  way,  I  see  that  your  brigadiers  have  not 
thought  it  worth  while  to  place  the  French  wounded  under 
surveillance."  He  pointed  to  a  halting  procession  of  rough- 
ly bandaged  casualties  in  torn  and  muddy  uniforms.  "I 
have  already  passed  at  least  a  thousand  of  these  limping 
fellows  in  red  breeches,  and  of  course  there  must  be  thou- 
sands more. ' ' 

"How  could  they  escape?"  asked  the  Warlock,  turning 
his  ascetic,  hairless  face  upon  the  speaker.  ' '  And  did  they 
succeed  in  doing  so,  of  what  use  would  they  be  as  comba- 
tants? All  these  you  see,  have  they  not  been  wounded  by 
shell-splinters  in  the  head  or  arms,  or  hit  in  the  legs  and 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  411 

feet  by  our  rifle  bullets  ?  Why  should  we  burden  ourselves 
with  the  maintenance  of  men  who  cannot  fight  against  us? 
and  must  be  helpless  burdens  upon  their  country  even  were 
they  within  the  French  lines  ? ' ' 

"I  admit  the  clearness  of  your  Excellency's  judgment," 
said  the  Minister,  ''even  while  I  doubt  whether,  if  some  of 
these  red-breeched  rascals  happen  to  be  in  possession  of 
concealed  weapons — there  would  not  be  an  excellent  oppor- 
tunity, at  this  moment,  for  ridding  France  of  Bismarck  or 
Moltke." 

"Or  both,"  the  "Warlock  amended,  "with  the  aid  of  a 
double-barreled  pistol.  Look  here !  Was  ever  a  more  star- 
tling likeness  between  a  dead  man  and  a  living,  than  is  pre- 
sented at  this  moment  before  Your  Excellency  and  my- 
self?" 

And  returning  the  salute  of  a  young  soldier  in  the  white- 
faced  blue  uniform  of  the  Guards  Infantry,  who  in  the  act 
of  galloping  past  upon  a  powerful  if  wearied  beast,  had 
checked  his  stride  so  as  not  to  splash  mud  upon  the  Chan- 
cellor and  the  great  Field-Marshal,  Moltke  signed  to  him  to 
halt. 

"That  he  is  a  relative  of  Max  Valverden 's, "  said  Bis- 
marck, "I  would  have  wagered  you  a  dozen  of  Moselle,  of 
Comet  vintage,  if  Your  Excellency  were  not  already  in- 
clined to  bet  on  the  relationship." 

' '  I  never  bet, ' '  chirped  Moltke,  ' '  except  in  boxes  of  choc- 
olate and  gloves  with  my  nieces,  and  then  it  is  a  matter  of 
certainty  beforehand  that  the  little  girls  are  going  to  win ! ' ' 
And  he  turned  his  narrow,  glittering  gaze  upon  the  object 
of  his  curiosity,  who  was  now  fixed  in  the  front  attitude  of 
attention,  immovable  as  an  equestrian  statue  of  painted 
stone. 

' '  I  will  not  detain  you  upon  what  is  no  doubt  a  pressing 
errand, ' '  said  the  Chief  of  the  Great  Staff,  smiling  amiably 
in  the  Guardsman's  rigid  countenance.  "I  merely  wished 
to  ask  your  name,  and  why  it  is  that  a  private  soldier  of 
Guard  Infantry  happens  to  be  riding  an  officer's  horse?" 

"Pardon,  General  Field-Marshal!"  The  statue  blushed 
becomingly.  "My  name  is  Carl  Bernhard  von  Schb'n  Val- 
verden,  at  the  service  of  Your  Excellency.  Of  my  rank  in 
the  Army  I  am  hardly  at  this  moment  certain,  as  I  was 
promoted  Corporal  and  Sergeant  yesterday,  during  the  ac- 


412  THE    MAN    OF    IROX 

tion  of  the  Guard  at  St.  Privat  and  Amanvilliers,  and  am 
now  acting  temporarily  as  junior  Captain  of  my  company, 
nearly  all  our  officers  having  been  killed." 

"I  congratulate  you,  Sergeant!"  rejoined  the  Field- 
Marshal  cordially,  "and  am  glad  that  you,  as  successor  to- 
the  family  honors  of  an  officer  who  served  the  Prussian 
Army  with  distinction,  seem  likely  to  follow  in  the  steps  of 
your  relative.  Prut ! — that  was  a  close  thing ! ' ' 

' '  Hellishly  so ! "  agreed  Bismarck. 

For  the  flushed  and  laughing  face  of  Valverden  had  sud- 
denly hardened  and  sharpened.  With  lightning  quickness 
he  had  drawn  a  revolver  from  a  pouch  strapped  to  his  belt 
and  fired  across  the  withers  of  the  big  brown  mare  bestrid- 
den by  the  Iron  Chancellor.  As  the  single  shot  rang  out, 
another  followed  almost  instantly,  and  the  midmost  of  a 
knot  of  three  dismounted  Lancers,  their  heads,  legs,  and 
arms  swathed  in  clumsy,  blood-stained  bandages,  who  had 
halted  to  rest  by  the  side  of  the  muddy  road,  yelled  shrilly 
and  pitched  heavily  backward,  dropping,  with  the  broken 
pair  of  clothes-props  that  had  served  him  as  crutches,  a 
cavalry  holster-pistol  that  had  exploded  as  it  fell. 

Said  Valverden,  stiffening  his  features  in  the  endeavor  to 
disguise  his  almost  passionate  elation:  "Your  Excellencies 
will  pardon  me,  but  I  saw  the  fellow  was  dangerous.  ..." 

"He  might  with  reason,"  the  Chancellor  answered,  "have 
entertained  a  similar  idea  of  you ! ' '  He  turned  to  Moltke, 
saying : 

"Will  not  Your  Excellency  give  orders  that  the  com- 
panions of  these  would-be  assassins — all  upon  the  road  who 
have  witnessed  the  attempted  outrage — shall  be  shot  with- 
out delay?  It  strikes  me  also  that  more  stringent  precau- 
tions must  be  taken  with  regard  to  disarming  wounded 
prisoners.  The  man  had  a  pistol — that  goes  for  much ! ' ' 

' '  Certainly — certainly ! ' '  agreed  Moltke,  beckoning  to  an 
aide  of  his  small  Staff,  who  followed  at  some  distance.  He 
issued  some  brief  directions,  speaking  in  an  undertone,  then 
said,  smiling  and  turning  to  Valverden : 

"The  late  Count  Max  was  an  excellent  marksman  with 
the  pistol.  You  seem  to  have  inherited  this  talent  of  his!" 

The  Chancellor  added,  looking  at  the  still  smoking  re- 
volver :  ' '  You  have  there  a  pretty  little  weapon,  apparently 
of  American  make ! ' ' 

"It  is  one  of  Colt's  six-shooters,"  said  Valverden,  smil- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  413 

ing.  "I  bought  it  from  a  non-commissioned  officer  quite 
recently,  and  have  practised  with  it  in  the  trenches  at  the 
animate  mark.  But  of  the  ammunition  I  got  with  it  all  has 
been  expended  save  six  cartridges,  one  of  which  I  have  had 
the  honor  to  dedicate  to  the  service  of  Your  Excellencies." 

Both  the  Excellencies  laughed,  Moltke  saying: 

"It  would  be  a  pity  to  spoil  your  shooting,  Sergeant 
Count  von  Schon  Valverden,  for  want  of  a  few  cartridges. 
Give  me  the  caliber  of  your  weapon  and  I  will  engage  to 
supply  you  with  a  few  hundred.  And,  as  to  your  prompti- 
tude may  be  owed  the  priceless  life  of  Count  Bismarck,  the 
silver-sword-knot  must  be  the  reward." 

"Thanks,  thanks!  Your  Excellency!"  stammered  Val- 
verden, grasping  the  offered  hand  of  the  old  warrior. 

"And  the  King  shall  hear  how  important  a  service  his 
newly  promoted  officer  has  rendered  him,"  appended  the 
Chancellor,  "in  preserving  to  the  Throne  and  nation  of 
Prussia  the  greatest  of  living  strategists ! ' ' 

"Under  Divine  Providence,"  said  Moltke,  devoutly  rais- 
ing his  forage-cap. 

"Under  Divine  Providence,"  repeated  the  Chancellor, 
touching  the  peak  of  his  own. 

He  added,  as  Valverden,  dismissed  by  a  wave  of  the 
Chief's  finger,  his  blue  eyes  blazing,  his  blond  face  aglow 
with  triumph,  set  his  borrowed  spurs  to  the  flanks  of  his 
late  Captain's  charger,  and  with  a  showy  bound  and  demi- 
volte,  galloped  furiously  away : 

"He  is  as  vain  as  Count  Max,  but  seems  to  possess  more 
character.  I  prophesy  he  will  go  far ! ' ' 

Moltke  agreed,  slightly  glancing  after  the  flying  horse- 
man: 

' '  Far — if  Heaven  preserve  him  from  the  clutches  of  such 
women  as  Adelaide  de  Bayard.  Wouldst  thou  believe,  Otto, 
the  she-fiend  spread  her  nets  to  catch  that  youngster,  who 
out  of  dare-devilry  prevailed  on  an  officer  of  her  acquaint- 
ance to  take  him  to  her  house  ? ' ' 

"  So ! "  Bismarck  turned  his  large  eyes  on  the  withered 
eagle-face.  "Did  the  meeting  ripen  into  intimacy?" 

Moltke  replied: 

' '  Sufficiently  so  to  cause  Valverden 's  family  acute  appre- 
hension. One  would  suppose  that  she  first  revolted,  then 
attracted,  then  charmed.  .  .  .  The  Countess  in  the  anguish 
of  maternal  solicitude  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Colonel  of  Val- 


414  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

verden's  regiment.  .  .  .  Fortunately  the  call  to  Active 
Service  diverted  the  young  man 's  thoughts  elsewhere. ' ' 

Bismarck  said,  smiling  and  smoothing  his  heavy  gray 
mustache  with  his  ungloved  right  hand : 

"And,  happily  for  her  intended  victim,  an  accident  be- 
fell the  sorceress,  which  blunted  some  of  the  arrows  in  her 
quiver  of  irresistible  charms!" 


XLVIII 

"SAD,  sad!  I  had  not  heard.  How  did  it  happen?"  asked 
Moltke,  elevating  his  hairless  brows  inquiringly. 

"Briefly,  the  affair,  as  its  details  have  reached  me,  sums 
up  in  this  way:  Straz,  the  Roumanian  agent  of  the  Em- 
peror Napoleon,  having  performed  his  mission  to  Prince 
Antony  of  Hohenzollern,  met  Madame  de  Bayard  at  a  Sig- 
maringen  hotel.  .  .  .  She  is  as  clever  and  light-fingered  as 
she  is,  or  was,  beautiful " 

' '  I  know,  I  know ! ' '  said  Moltke.  ' '  She  sucked  Straz  dry 
of  his  store  of  Imperial  secrets,  but  how,  I  did  not  hear 
from  Your  Excellency." 

Eeturned  the  Chancellor : 

' '  By  drugging  him — or  so  he  vows ! — she  obtained  those 
copies  of  his  instructions  from  the  Emperor  (with  copies 
of  his  copies  of  the  telegrams  sent  by  Prince  Antony)  — 
which  I  was  privileged  to  show  you  later  on.  Subsequently, 
and  in  floods  of  artificial  tears,  she  awakened  her  victim, 
declaring  she  must  return  that  instant  to  Berlin.  Which 
she  did — a  special  engine  having  been  kept  under  steam  at 
the  Sigmaringen  railway  station — in  time  to  place  the  pa- 
pers in  the  hands  for  which  they  were  destined.  The  ex- 
quisite point  of  the  jest  is  that  Straz  accompanied  her — 
subsequently  discovering  how  roundly  he  had  been  be- 
fooled !  But  upon  this  point  I  am  not  certain.  ...  I  only 
argue  from  the  premises  that  when  Delilah  was  subsequent- 
ly found  gagged,  half-strangled,  and  robbed  in  her  bed- 
room at  the  hotel  where  she  and  her  Roumanian  had  put  up 
— Straz — who  had  vanished — was  the  perpetrator  of  what 
Madame  has  since  termed  'a  mysterious  outrage.'  ' 

"He  took  the  money?"  Moltke  queried. 

"Undoubtedly  he  took  the  money,  which  Bucher  had 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  415 

paid  her  a  few  hours  previously.  Twenty  thousand  marks 
in  honest  Prussian  bank-notes.  Some  of  them  Straz  changed 
before  he  left  Berlin.  He  is  now  here  in  France,  and  that 
is  all  I  care  to  know  of  him  at  present.  But  in  the  eyes  of 
every  man  she  now  encounters,  Madame  will  read  some- 
thing that  will  keep  her  animosity  alive." 

"So  changed,  is  she?"  asked  Moltke,  with  interest. 

' '  So  changed  is  she,  in  spite  of  the  aid  of  cosmetics,  that 
as  I  looked  at  her  I  was  minded  to  exclaim  with  the  Prophet 
Ezekiel:  Devourer  of  men  .  .  .  iliou  shalt  devour  men 
no  more!" 

The  speaker  added: 

' '  Unless  vicariously,  for  the  De  Bayard  has  a  daughter — 
not  destitute  of  charms,  if  there  be  truth  in  the  description 
given  me  by  her  mother,  when  the  woman  offered,  for  a 
consideration,  to  sell  the  girl  to  me ! " 

"Prut!"  said  Moltke,  reddening  angrily  and  frowning. 
' '  Decency  demands  that  such  vileness  be  kept  hid ! ' ' 

Said  the  Chancellor,  shrugging  indifferently : 

"Decency  and  such  women  as  Max  Valverden's  ex-mis- 
tress have  long  ceased  to  be  on  nodding  terms.  To  do 
Madame  justice,  she  flew  at  higher  game  than  a  mere  Prus- 
sian Minister.  Her  idea  was  to  influence  a  future  Emperor, 
in  the  person  of  Badinguet  's  heir. ' ' 

Moltke  wrinkled  up  his  transparent,  arched  nostrils,  as 
though  an  unpleasant  odor  had  afflicted  them: 

"Pfui! — what  beastliness!  what  abomination!  And  the 
boy  but  fifteen,  and  childish  for  his  age ! ' ' 

"And  cleanly  of  habit  and  thought,"  added  Bismarck, 
"considering  his  paternity,  and  the  sort  of  people  who  ha- 
bitually surround  him."  He  turned  slightly  in  his  saddle 
as  carbine-shots  rang  out,  followed  by  oaths,  shouts,  and  in 
the  distance  behind  them  muscular  blows:  "The  gendarm- 
ery  of  the  Wiirttembergers  are  carrying  out  your  orders  in 
a  general  'battue.  It  should  be  enforced  as  an  iron  rule 
never  to  be  infringed  or  departed  from,  that  not  only  those 
soldiers,  reduced  to  the  level  of  non-combatants — who  at- 
tempt to  revenge  the  misfortunes  of  their  Army  by  acts  of 
violence — but  those  who  witness  such  acts  are  to  be  in- 
stantly shot.  More,  the  rule  should  extend  to  private  per- 
sons: I  would  without  mercy  shoot  or  hang  all  those  who 
do  not  treat  as  sacredly  inviolate  the  persons  of  their  con- 
querors ! ' ' 


416  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

His  deep-cut  nostrils  expanded,  his  blood-tinged  blue  eyes 
Tslazed  under  the  heavy  eyebrows,  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
clamped  downward,  giving  to  the  thick  mustache  a  certain 
appearance  of  solidity,  typical  of  the  man,  and  suggesting 
a  human  mask  carved  in  granite,  or  cast  in  bronze  and  col- 
ored with  the  hues  of  life.  His  resonant  voice  had  the 
clang  and  timbre  of  a  war-gong,  forged  of  metal  tempered 
by  Pagan  priests  in  blood  of  human  victims.  And  he  went 
on,  his  clenched  right  hand  beating  the  measure  of  his 
words  upon  his  solid  thigh : 

"I  speak  from  the  inner  depths,  at  the  promptings  of  a 
profound  conviction.  Strictness — unmerciful  strictness — 
should  be  wielded,  to  bring  home  to  the  innocent  and  the 
guilty,  the  feeble  as  well  as  the  powerful,  the  horror  and 
hideousness  of  War.  And  yet ' ' — his  voice  assumed  a  milder 
tone,  the  somber  frown  relaxed,  and  the  tense  corners  of 
the  deep-cut  mouth  twitched  a  little:  "And  yet  wilt  thou 
credit  that  durog  the  frightful  carnage  of  the  last  two 
days — there  have  been  moments  when  my  bowels  melted  to 
water — when  Pity  and  Compunction  have  gripped  me  by 
the  throat?" 

"Ach-ach!"  ejaculated  Moltke,  turning  his  clear  red- 
rimmed  eyes  wonderingly  upon  the  heavy  features  whose 
ruddy  color  had  faded  to  grayish:  "Thou  wast  unfed,  or 
hadst  made  some  rough  soldier's  meal  that  disagreed  with 
thee.  Man's  stomach  will  upon  such  occasions  chide  with 
the  very  voice  of  conscience.  Unavoidable  horrors  need  not 
cause  twinges.  Besides,  pity  and  compunction  are  felt  by 
my  niece  Gusta  when  she  has  trodden  upon  her  lapdog's 
tail.  ...  I  am  myself  agitated  by  these  sentiments  when. 
Gusta  exhibits  to  me  her  chilblains.  ...  In  War — espe- 
cially a  recklessly  provoked  war  of  attack,  such  as  this — 
neither  pity  nor  compunction  can  be  tolerated.  Grief  of 
heart,  I  have  been  hitherto  spared  by  Heaven's  gracious 
preservation  of  those  dear  to  me.  Thou  art  nearly  as  fa- 
vored, for  the  wound  of  Herbert  is  comparatively  slight, 
and  Bill — the  hero  of  the  astonishing  episode  thou  hast 
related — has  come  off  the  field  not  only  with  four — I  think 
Your  Excellency  mentioned  four — rescued  comrades,  but 
without  a  scratch  upon  his  skin?" 

The  simple,  serious,  almost  childish  tone  of  his  harangue 
brought  back  the  thunderclouds  to  the  forehead  of  the  Man 
of  Iron.  His  grim  mouth  set,  his  bulldog  jaw  thrust  for- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  417 

ward,  a  dull  cloud  of  red  swept  upward  to  his  temples, 
chasing  the  sickly  grayish  hue.  He  said,  stammering  in  his 
characteristic  manner : 

"Your  Ex — Your  Excellency  and  myself  have,  as  you 
say,  been  spared  the  bereavement  which  will  presently 
plunge  the  noblest  Prussian  families  into  mourning.  But 
Heaven — looking  down  upon  the  Gorze  Koad,  now  white 
with  the  bodies  of  Von  Bredow's  Cuirassiers — or  contem- 
plating the  field  of  Mars  la  Tour,  heaped  with  the  corpses 
of  our  Guard-Dragoons  and  Uhlans — might  be  inclined  to 
disclaim  arch-responsibility  for  the  orders  that  in  one  in- 
stance hurled  suss — six  Prussian  squadrons  upon  a  French 
Infantry  Division  and  the  combined  strength  of  Frossard's 
batteries,  and  in  the  other,  pitted  against  eight  regiments 
of  French  Imperial  Guard  Cavalry  Von  Barby's  Heavy 
Brigade." 

"EH"  said  Moltke,  placidly  ignoring  the  irony,  but  with 
a  rosy  heightening  of  the  color  in  his  wrinkled  cheeks: 
"And  Heaven  would  be  in  the  right  of  it.  Von  Alven- 
sleben  in  the  first  case,  General  Voights-Ehetz  in  the  sec- 
ond, had  been  told  in  such  and  such  an  emergency  to  do 
thus — and  thus.  In  the  Wars  of  Joshua  and  David,  as  re- 
corded in  Holy  Scripture,  Heaven  assumed  the  chief  gen- 
eralship. In  the  War  of  Germany  with  France,  in  this 
year  of  1870,  Heaven  is  pleased  to  let  Moltke  have  his  own 
way." 

Verbal  thrusts  and  riposte  had  the  grind  of  edged  steel 
on  steel. 

The  Chancellor  returned  with  elaborate  suavity: 

"And  yet — I  quote  Your  Excellency's  own  utterance, 
such  use  of  cavalry  as  I  have  quoted  has  been  condemned 
by  Moltke  as  unjustifiable." 

"And  Moltke  was  right,"  trumpeted  the  indomitable 
veteran,  ' '  only  you  have  not  quoted  me  right.  Such  use  of 
cavalry  by  a  general  is  unjustifiable.  Unjustifiable — abso- 
lutely— unless  he  wins ! ' '  He  added,  rather  nettled  by  the 
Chancellor 's  criticism : 

* '  Here  we  part,  as  I  ride  toward  Gorze  to  visit  the  scene 
of  Von  Bredow's  brilliant  exploit,  in  the  course  of  which, 
though  Your  Excellency  has  omitted  to  mention  it,  the 
French  battery  was  cut  to  pieces,  and  an  infantry  column 
ridden  down.  Thus  the  loss  of  life  in  a  military  sense 
weighs  nothing  against  the  advantage ! ' ' 


418  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

And  stiffly  returning  the  Minister's  salute,  the  Warlock 
galloped  away. 

"I  have  trodden  on  Moltke's  corns,"  said  Bismarck, 
laughing,  as  his  cousin  Bismarck-Bohlen  rode  up  to  join 
him.  "He  grew  testy  on  being  twitted  with  our  losses  in 
cavalry."  He  added,  as  the  low  hedges  hounding  the  road 
vanished,  and  the  arena  of  the  previous  afternoon 's  conflict 
opened  before  them :  ' '  There  is  the  King,  whose  face  Roori 
has  lengthened  with  tremendous  lists  of  losses  on  our  side. 
It  will  now  be  my  business  to  shorten  the  royal  countenance 
again.  Roon  and  I  resemble  Ixel  and  Axel  in  the  child's 
story-book,  only  that  we  manage  better  on  the  whole ! ' '  He 
explained  as  his  cousin  professed  ignorance  of  the  legend: 
"Ixel  and  Axel  were  possessed  of  a  magical  birth-gift, 
which  worked  in  the  same  way,  but  differently.  .  .  .  Thus, 
Axel  had  a  little  finger  that  stirred  sweet,  while  Ixel's 
stirred  sour,  only  neither  could  remember  to  use  his  gift 
properly.  Thus,  Ixel  would  sour  the  coffee  in  the  pot,  spoil 
the  beer,  and  turn  the  jelly  in  the  house-mother's  pipkins, 
while  Axel  would  stir  the  sauer-kraut  sweet  and  make  sweet 
calf's  head  with  cabbages!"  He  added,  laughing:  "If  a 
dish  thus  flavored  were  now  set  before  me,  I  should  cer- 
tainly make  short  work  of  it.  Save  for  a  bowl  of  the  sol- 
dier 's  pea-soup  given  me  by  General  von  Goeben  this  morn- 
ing— my  stomach  would  now  be  as  empty  as  the  inside  of 
Louis  Napoleon 's  head ! ' ' 

The  scene  of  the  Homeric  battle  of  the  previous  after- 
noon, watched  by  the  King,  Bismarck,  Roon,  and  Moltke 
from  the  ridge  south  of  Flavigny,  was  indescribable.  Blue 
Prussian  infantry,  mingled  with  Uhlan  lancers,  Dragoons, 
and  mounted  Chasseurs  of  the  Imperial  Guard,  covered  the 
wide  stretch  of  level  common-ground  between  the  Bois  de 
Vionville  and  the  Bois  de  Gaumont.  So  high  were  piled 
the  bodies  of  dead  men  and  dead  horses,  mingled  with  that 
sorrowful  debris  of  shattered  arms,  scattered  accouterments 
and  ownerless  headgear,  that  live  men  walked  through  nar- 
row lanes  and  crevasses  opening  here  and  there  among 
them,  and  failed  to  reach  the  surface  at  the  full  stretch  of 
the  arm. 

Bearer-sections  of  the  German  Ambulance  were  looking 
for  survivors,  burial-parties  were  collecting  the  German 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  419 

dead.  Here  and  there  the  narrow  lanes  that  ended  nowhere 
had  become  crooked  thoroughfares,  owing  to  these  efforts 
and  the  labor  of  bands  of  volunteers  and  peasants  work- 
ing under  the  Red  Cross. 

P.  C.  Breagh  was  one  of  these  toilers.  On  the  previous 
day  he  had  helped  the  peasants  clear  the  Red  Ravine  under 
the  direction  of  the  Gorze  Sisters  of  Mercy,  and  darkness 
falling  before  the  gruesome  task  was  ended,  he  had  kept  on 
by  torch  and  lantern-light  until  brain  and  muscles  gave  in. 
Then,  staggering  with  weariness,  he  had  gone  back  with 
the  Sisters  to  their  convent — had  been  dried  and  warmed, 
fed  with  soup  and  bread,  stewed  fruit  and  coffee,  and  had 
slept  dreamlessly  in  the  clean  spare  bed  at  their  gardener's 
cottage — to  wake,  refreshed,  in  the  light  of  a  new  day. 

Morning  had  found  every  house  in  Gorze  crammed  with 
French  and  German  wounded,  and  every  able-bodied  resi- 
dent, willingly  or  otherwise,  impressed  into  the  service  of 
the  Red  Cross.  One  single  lady  of  the  Sister's  acquaint- 
ance, whose  villa  had  been  forcibly  turned  into  a  hospital, 
had  retired  to  sleep  off  a  nervous  headache,  setting  her  maid 
to  guard  her  bedroom  door.  Which  door,  after  an  interval 
of  trampling  and  violent  argument,  had  been  kicked  open, 
revealing  the  kicker  in  the  person  of  a  Prussian  General, 
muddy  to  the  whiskers,  hoarse  from  exposure  and  shout- 
ing, and  red-eyed  from  the  lack  of  sleep,  who  there  and 
then  forcibly  ejected  the  hapless  spinster  from  her  bed,  and 
telling  her  go  and  nurse  the  wounded,  pulled  off  his  spurred 
boots,  and  promptly  installed  himself  in  her  place. 

This  was  mild  treatment,  even  tender,  to  the  usage  re- 
ceived by  many  other  harmless  non-combatants.  P.  C. 
Breagh  had  seen  an  elderly  priest  savagely  hit  in  the  face 
by  a  dismounted  Uhlan,  whom  he  had  unintentionally 
jostled  in  helping  to  lift  a  disabled  French  soldier  into  a 
cart. 

And  he  had  been  witness  of  other  outrages.  He  had  seen 
a  wayside  cabaret  gutted,  and  the  casks  hauled  up  from 
the  cellar,  set  up  on  end,  unheaded,  and  emptied  by  a  party 
of  blue  infantry-men.  When  they  had  dipped  in  and  filled 
their  water-bottles,  they  had  drunk  out  of  their  helmets, 
and  when  they  could  drink  no  more,  they  had  emptied  out 
the  wine  upon  the  ground  before  the  bush-decorated  door- 
way, and  with  brutal  jests  and  laughter  watched  the  red 
stuff  trickle  away. 


420  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

To  this  senseless  waste  the  host  had  offered  no  objection. 
A  blow  from  a  gun-butt  had  previously  knocked  him  sense- 
less, and  his  wife,  with  her  black  hair  hanging  wildly  over 
her  shoulders,  and  her  face  blurred  with  tears  and  pale 
with  terror,  was  trying  to  bring  him  round  again. 


XLIX 

THE  sight  of  the  battle-field  blotted  out  that  brutal  picture 
— made  him  clench  his  hands  until  the  nails  dug  deep  into 
the  palms,  shut  his  eyes  and  set  his  teeth,  fighting  down 
the  deadly  qualm.  ...  It  was  worse  than  the  Red  Ravine  a 
hundred  times  magnified.  It  was  awful — inconceivably  aw- 
ful. .  .  .  He  found  himself  muttering : 

' '  I  wonder  how  God  can  bear  to  look  down  on  it  all ! " 

With  difficulty  he  controlled  his  ardent  desire  to  remove 
himself  as  far  as  possible  from  this  attained  vision  of  his 
great  desire,  by  using  the  legs  that  had  brought  him  to  this 
hideous  scene : 

"If  some  of  the  fellows  who  gas  about  wanting  to  see 
War — as  I  gassed — not  twenty-four  hours  ago — could  be 
set  down  where  I  stand  now,  they'd  find  out,  as  I  have 
found — that  they  didn  't  know  what  they  were  talking  about. 
.  .  .  Oh,  God !  .  .  .  suppose  one  of  them  saw  that  German 
Hussar  without  a  head,  sitting  upright  on  a  dead  horse, 
curiously  caparisoned  with  its  own  intestines,  would  he  go 
sheer  crazy  or  tumble  down  in  a  swoon  ? ' ' 

He  who  saw  the  thing  kept  on  his  legs  and  did  not  lose 
his  mental  equilibrium.  We  are  so  weak  to  our  own  knowl- 
edge that  it  is  always  a  marvel  when  we  find  ourselves 
strong.  He  found  the  nausea  going  and  the  dimness  clear- 
ing from  his  vision.  He  could  even  breathe  the  dreadful 
air,  and,  standing  on  the  limber  of  a  broken  gun-carriage, 
stare  out  over  the  rigid  billows  of  that  silent  sea  of  death 
and  tell  himself  that  a  not  inapt  comparison  would  have 
been  Deal  Beach,  with  ridges  of  dead  men  and  beasts  in- 
stead of  ridges  of  pebbles,  and  flocks  of  carrion  crows 
instead  of  gulls — flapping  heavily  from  one  place  to  settle 
down  in  another  and  renew  their  dreadful  banquet,  between 
hoarse  croakings  that  sounded  like  ' '  More,  more,  more ! ' ' 

Starlings  in  myriads  were  there,  reveling  in  blood  and 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  421 

fat  like  the  titmice  and  robins,  who  manifested  predilections 
calculated  to  divest  P.  C.  Breagh  of  the  last  remnant  of 
belief  in  the  tender  fable  of  the  Babes  in  the  Wood.  But- 
terflies, Royal  Peacock,  and  Purple  Emperor  greedily 
sipped  blood  in  preference  to  honey-dew.  Hares,  rendered 
tame  by  bewilderment  and  terror,  couched  among  the 
corpses  of  men,  their  natural  enemies. 

Toward  the  northeast  rose  a  knoll,  about  which  the 
battle  seemed  to  have  raged  desperately.  For  it  was  high- 
heaped  with  bodies  of  the  green- jacketed  Chasseurs  on  the 
bony  brown  horses,  and  ringed  about  with  Red  Uhlans  and 
Dragoons  in  blue  coats.  The  black  and  white  lance-pennons 
were  whipping  and  flickering  in  the  morning  breeze  that 
brought  with  it  the  appalling  savor  of  death.  .  .  . 

One  had  come  to  work,  not  to  make  notes.  P.  C.  Breagh 
got  down  from  the  limber  into  the  trough  between  two  tow- 
ering wave-crests  and  looked  about  him  helplessly,  not 
knowing  where  to  begin.  A  bearer-party  of  the  Prussian 
Ambulance  Service  pushed  by  him.  They  were  hard-bitten, 
brown-faced  men,  who  joked  and  laughed  freely.  A  scared 
band  of  peasants  followed,  carrying  auxiliary  stretchers 
made  of  hurdles  and  sacks  and  poles. 

Upon  the  heels  of  these  tottered  a  single  figure.  Was  it 
a  young  girl,  or  an  old  woman,  so  slight  and  frail,  so  bowed 
and  blackly  clad?  A  black  silk  veil  covered  the  bent  face, 
the  small  white  hands  were  knitted  across  the  narrow 
bosom.  A  white  linen  armlet  with  the  badge  of  the  Red 
Cross  showed  vividly  against  the  sleeve  of  her  plain  black 
merino  dress.  The  little,  daintily  shod  feet  that  showed 
under  the  dabbled  hem  of  the  skirt  had  red  mire  upon 
them.  Through  the  veil  her  great  eyes  gleamed,  haggardly 
moving  from  side  to  side,  restlessly  seeking.  .  .  . 

P.  C.  Breagh  was  becoming  familiar  with  that  look  of 
strained  apprehension  and  bleak  anxiety,  stamped  upon  the 
sharpened  faces  of  those  crowds  of  black-clad  men  and 
women  who  hastened  from  all  quarters  to  seek  amid  the 
brute  and  human  waste  and  wreckage  of  battle,  their  own 
wounded  or  dead. 

She  moved  with  the  irregular  gait  of  one  walking  in  a 
fog,  looking  from  side  to  bide,  questing  amid  blue  and  livid 
or  waxen  faces  for  the  face,  it  was  quite  plain.  Her  look 
passed  over  bodies  that  did  not  wear  the  dark-green,  silver- 
laced  dolman,  and  silver-striped  red  pantaloons  of  the 


422  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

mounted  Chasseurs  of  the  Guard  Imperial.  She  ignored 
faces  that  were  young,  and  unadorned  with  the  crisp  mus- 
tache and  the  Imperial  tuft. 

For  whom  did  she  seek?  A  husband,  uncle,  father?  .  .  . 
What  lay  in  her  path  ?  Something  that,  did  the  little  foot 
strike  it  unwarily,  might  bring  to  an  end  that  anguished 
search.  .  .  .  The  impact  seemed  so  imminent  that  his  voice 
died  in  his  throat  when  he  strove  to  call  to  her.  He  got  out 
in  a  gasping  croak : 

' '  Stop !  .  .  .  Look !  .  .  .  Right  in  your  path  there !  .  .  . 
For  God's  sake,  don't  touch  it — it's  a  live  shell!"  .  .  . 

She  swerved  blindly  aside  in  obedience  to  the  warning, 
though  he  who  uttered  it  had  spoken  in  his  own  tongue. 
The  edge  of  her  skirt  brushed  the  unexploded  shrapnel,  a 
potentiality  fraught  with  hideous  death.  But  she  struck 
her  knee  against  the  wheel  of  the  broken  limber — would 
have  fallen  but  for  P.  C.  Breagh.  Even  as  the  slight  figure 
stumbled  against  him,  he  knew  the  veil  screened  the  face  of 
Juliette. 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard.  .  .  .  Madame  ..." 

"Ah,  it  is  you — it  is  you!"  she  said  gaspingly. 

And  she  would  have  dropped  at  his  feet  had  he  not  thrust 
out  strong  hands  and  caught  hers  that  were  still  knitted 
over  her  breast. 

They  were  so  cold,  so  cold  and  tiny.  They  stirred  in  his 
grasp  like  little  half-frozen  birds.  She  freed  one,  and  put 
aside  the  heavy  veil,  and  showed  him  what  havoc  Grief  can 
make  in  loveliness.  .  .  .  She  said — in  the  toneless  wraith  of 
the  crystal  voice  he  remembered : 

"When  you  spoke  to  me  in  English,  I  knew  Our  Lord 
had  not  forgotten  me.  Ah,  Monsieur  Breagh,  for  the  love 
you  bear  your  sister! — for  the  love  of  charity — do  not  de- 
sert me!  Me,  I  am  in  the  greatest  extremity,  or  I  would 
not  venture  to  appeal  to  you  now.  In  the  midst  of  these 
appalling  cruelties  and  terrors  I  seek  the  body  of  one  who 
is  all  the  world  to  me.  .  .  .  For  that  I  may  find  him  living 
I  do  not  dare  to  hope  ..." 

P.  C.  Breagh  choked  out,  crimsoning  and  stammering : 

"Not  your  husband?  .  .  .  You  don't  mean  your  hus- 
band .  .  .  ?" 

She  said,  with  a  wonderful,  pure  dignity : 

"Not  my  husband.  My  father,  sir.  It  is  since  a  week 
that  I  returned  from  Belgium  upon  receiving  news  of  his 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  423 

captivity  in  the  hands  of  the  Prussians.  The  intelligence 
was  false — I  afterward  learned.  How — I  cannot  now  tell 
you.  At  this  moment,  and  in  the  presence  of  all  these  poor 
corpses,  of  odor  so  terrible,  of  appearance  so  frightful,  I 
can  remember  nothing  very  well.  But  this — that  I  have 
come  from  Rethel  since  yesterday,  and  that  I  have  come  al- 
together alone." 

' '  Alone !  .  .  .  without  a  guide,  or  protector  of  any  kind  ? 
.  .  .  Without  papers  ?  .  .  . "  His  face  expressed  the  blank- 
est surprise. 

"A  passport  was  obtained  for  me,"  she  told  him,  "by 
whom  I  will  not  say  now,  so  that  from  the  Belgian  frontier 
I  might  reach  Rethel.  When  I  quitted  Rethel,  I  was  given 
a  military  permit  by  the  aid  of  which  I  returned  to  Verdun. 
From  Verdun,  in  a  train  full  of  French  wounded — in 
a  fiacre  part  of  the  way — in  a  peasant 's  cart  the  remaining 
distance — I  traveled ;  hoping  to  reach  the  Camp  of  the  Im- 
perial Guard  Cavalry  at  Chatel  St.  Germain.  But  at 
Plappeville  they  detained  me.  A  great  battle  was  raging. 
.  .  .  What  thunder  of  guns,  what  fire  and  smoke,  what  ter- 
rible confusion,  devastation,  wounds,  and  death  did  I  not 
behold!  ..." 

She  unknitted  one  of  the  little  rigid  hands  that  he  had 
let  go,  felt  for  her  handkerchief,  and  wiped  away  the  cold 
drops  of  anguish  that  stood  upon  her  blue-veined  temples 
and  about  her  colorless  lips.  And  P.  C.  Breagh  could  only 
look  at  her  in  an  agony  of  pity,  and  wonder  at  the  courage 
that  bore  the  frail  creature  up. 

"Last  night  the  frightful  explosions  of  cannon  ceased 
A  poor  peasant  woman  had  afforded  me  shelter  in  her  cot- 
tage, and  shared  with  me  the  milk  of  her  goat  and  her  last 
loaf  of  bread.  News  came  before  day,  brought  by  a  wound- 
ed soldier,  whose  comrades  had  been  killed,  that  the  battle 
had  been  won  by  the  Army  of  France,  but  that  M.  de  Ba- 
zaine  had  withdrawn  our  forces  for  rest  and  shelter  to  the 
Citadel  of  Metz.  I  asked  this  poor  soldier  for  intelligence 
of  my  father's  regiment,  the  777th  Mounted  Chasseurs  of 
the  Guard.  The  reply  was :  '  Three  regiments  of  Mounted 
Chasseurs  lie  dead  on  the  field  of  honor.  You  will  find 
them  south  of  Flavigny,  between  the  Bois  de  Vionville  and 
the  Bois  de  Gaumont. '  I  cried  out  then,  for  the  words  had 
pierced  me  like  sharp  iron.  I  would  have  run  out  of  the 
bouse  to  find  my  father,  like  a  creature  distracted,  but  that 


424  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

an  ambulance  of  the  Red  Cross,  accompanied  by  two  Eng- 
lish Protestant  Sisters,  passed  through  the  village  on  the 
Avay  to  this  terrible  place.  They  brought  me  with  them — 
'You  cannot  seek  among  the  dead,'  they  told  me.  'without 
the  brassard  of  the  Rouge  Croix. '  This  they  put  upon  me, 
and  then  they  bring  me  with  them.  Now  I  know  not  where 
they  are,  but  I  have  found  you.  Help  me,  monsieur — and  I 
will  pray  for  you  until  I  die ! ' ' 

She  gave  him  one  wild,  supplicating  look,  put  her  little 
frozen  hands  together — would  have  knelt  down  on  the 
bloody  grass  to  plead  with  him  the  better,  if  he  had  seemed 
to  delay.  But  he  caught  fire  at  her  naming  eagerness,  and 
snatched  at  the  wallet  of  Red  Cross  necessaries  he  had  un- 
slung  when  he  had  climbed  upon  the  broken  limber  to  gaze 
over  that  sea  of  Death  that  spread  to  the  horizon,  crying: 

' '  Of  course  1 11  help  you  look  for  your  father !  .  .  .  But 
how  to  search  for  him — and  where  ?  .  .  .  Tell  me  ...  the 
regiment  and  the  color  of  the  uniform?" 

Shuddering,  she  pointed  to  the  green,  silver-braided  dol- 
man clothing  of  one  of  the  rigid  figures  near  them.  He 
noted  the  red  and  green  plume  of  the  sealskin  talpack,  cut 
through,  perhaps,  by  a  stroke  of  the  heavy  saber  yet 
gripped  in  the  stiff  right  hand  of  a  Prussian  Dragoon.  He 
muttered,  even  while  mentally  registering  other  details  of 
the  Chasseur's  uniform — noting  the  crest  embroidered  on 
the  green  schabraque  of  the  brown  charger  whose  inert 
weight  rested  on  its  dead  rider's  thigh: 

"777th  Chasseurs  .  .  .  I've  heard  German  officers  telling 
each  other  that  they  fought  like  devils  yesterday.  .  .  .  Half 
a  dozen  regiments  might  have  been  cut  up  here!  And  we 
have  to  find  one  man  somewhere  in  a  square  mile  of  piled- 
up  bodies.  ...  If  one  only  had  a  bloodhound  and  one  of 
De  Bayard 's  gloves !  ..." 

Love  has  a  scent  as  keen  as  the  great  dun  hound  of  the 
hanging  dewlap.  The  issue  of  the  search  was  to  prove  this. 
For  an  hour,  as  it  seemed,  they  traversed  narrow  lanes  that 
wound  between  walls  of  dead  men.  Then  the  ground  rose 
to  a  knoll,  topped  with  three  scorched  oak-trees  that  had 
been  stripped  of  their  leaves  and  lopped  of  their  branches 
by  the  blizzard  of  metal  and  fire,  still  burning,  the  air  ex- 
panding in  their  sap-channels,  exploded  with  the  detonation 
of  musketry.  Charred  cinders  dropped  from  them;  they 
gave  forth  clouds  of  acrid-smelling  whitish  smoke. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  425 

About  and  upon  this  knoll  of  the  three  oak-trees  the  bat- 
tle of  the  previous  day  had  raged — the  billows  of  the  sea 
of  Death  had  beaten  fiercely.  The  lane  became  a  crevasse, 
the  floor  of  which  sloped  sharply — from  the  sides  of  which 
projected  rigid  limbs,  human  and  equine.  But  the  slender 
figure  in  black  moved  between  them — stooped  to  pass  under 
them,  seldom  faltering.  When  the  young  man  who  fol- 
lowed begged  her  to  turn  back,  she  shook  her  head  with- 
out answering,  and  kept  on.  The  silent  gesture  meant : 

"Not  yet!  A  little  farther  still!  ...  Be  patient  with 
me,  I  beg  of  you ! ' ' 

For  it  seemed  to  Juliette 's  tense  nerves  and  overstrained 
brain  as  though  those  white  or  blue,  or  darkly-discolored 
faces,  hideously  distorted  or  wearing  an  unnatural  expres- 
sion of  calm,  were  all  staring  with  their  glassy  eyes  in  one 
direction,  pointed  out  by  myriads  of  stiffened  arms. 

She  said,  tottering  with  sheer  weakness,  and  turning 
upon  her  companion  colorless,  black-ringed  eyes  set  in  a 
face  most  strangely  peaked  and  shrunken: 

"Here  where  these  trees  are  I  will  turn,  because  my 
strength  is  failing.  .  .  .  See,  see !  O  Mother  of  God !  .  .  . 
O  Jesu!  ...  HE  IS  THERE!" 

The  scream  that  tore  through  her  slender  throat  turned 
P.  C.  Breagh's  blood  to  snow-water.  He  could  only  gasp, 
clutching  at  the  folds  of  her  black  school-dress  with  a  vague 
idea  of  holding  her  back  from  some  sight  of  intolerable 
horror : 

"Wait!    For  God's  sake!    Wait!  .  .  .  Let  me!  .  .  ." 

She  shook  off  his  unconsciously  violent  grasp  as  though  it 
had  been  a  baby 's.  She  was  gone,  wading  through  a  languid 
runnel  of  fast-congealing  blood,  stepping  over  a  broken 
lance-shaft  and  a  horse's  rigid  hind-limb.  When  P.  C. 
Breagh  reached  her,  she  was  crouching  on  a  patch  of  hoof- 
torn  earth  through  which  the  limestone  core  of  the  knoll 
showed  in  places,  hugging  to  her  bosom  a  stiff  blue  hand. 

It  wore  a  familiar  ring,  that  brave  right  hand,  from 
whose  grip  the  long  cavalry  sword  had  dropped  when  the 
Uhlan  gave  the  death-thrust.  But  I  think,  even  without 
the  crested  sard,  his  daughter  would  have  known.  ... 

Madness  was  near  enough  in  that  fell  hour  to  brush  the 
bowed  veiled  head  of  Juliette  with  her  tattered  mantle  of 
imaginary  enemies.  She  saw  nothing  and  knew  nothing 
but  that  her  father  was  there.  She  kissed  the  stiff  blue 


426  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

hand,  and  sang  to  it  and  cuddled  it.  Ophelia  was  not  more 
tragic  than  this  Convent  school-girl,  squatting  in  the  chilly 
shadow  of  a  heap  of  dead  horsemen,  lavishing  futile,  fool- 
ish tendernesses  on  that  piece  of  insensible  clay : 

"My  father,  now  that  I  have  found  thee,  we  must  never 
be  parted  again — never !  Indeed,  I  have  tried  to  obey  thee 
— but  I  could  not  help  coming  back  because  I  love  thee  so ! 
.  .  .  Thou  hast  been  wounded,  but  I  will  nurse  thee  and 
cure  thee.  When  thou  art  well  again  we  will  find  a  quiet 
home  together,  where  my  mother  shall  never  come.  For 
she  is  not  good  as  my  grandmother  was,  and  as  thou  art,  my 
own  father !  .  .  .  I  have  fear  of  her,  now  that  I  have  seen 
and  known!  ..." 

She  broke  off  and  listened,  as  though  an  answer  had  come 
from  under  the  blood-stained  Imperial  eagle  and  the  corpses 
that  hid  De  Bayard  from  her  view.  One  of  them  was  the 
body  of  the  young  subaltern  who  had  borne  the  standard. 
Over  him  sprawled  the  colossal  form  of  a  German  officer  of 
Dragoons.  He  was  not  dead,  for  he  moved,  and  blood  was 
yet  trickling  from  a  sword-cut  that  had  bitten  deep  into  his 
shoulder  through  the  cuirass,  and  a  deep  gash  in  the  close- 
cropped  scalp  of  his  unhelmeted  head. 

' '  Help !  Some  drink !  Donner!  how  my  head  hurts ! "  he 
groaned  faintly. 

P.  C.  Breagh,  judging  it  a  case  for  practical  Samaritan- 
ism,  got  to  him  by  skirting  the  heap  of  dead  and  scaling  it 
from  the  opposite  side.  Reaching  the  summit,  he  dosed  the 
Dragoon  with  cognac,  and  was  about  to  apply  a  first-aid 
bandage  to  the  damaged  shoulder,  when  the  red-banded 
forage-caps  and  bearded  faces  of  a  burial-party  of  Prus- 
sian Guard  infantry  strung  through  the  narrow  alley  below 
the  level  of  his  operations,  and  an  unforgotten  voice  said 
in  rough  Teutonic  gutturals: 

"Hereabouts  or  near.  Begin  this— widening  the  way 
until  carts  can  get  through  to  be  loaded.  .  .  .  Kreuzdon- 
nerwettcr!  is  that  a  dog  up  there?" 

Another  voice  answered : 

* '  No,  Herr  Sergeant.    It  is  either  a  nun  or  a  woman ! ' ' 

The  Sergeant  thundered : 

' '  You  silly  sheepshead !  Aren  't  nuns  women  ?  But  you 
verdammte  Catholics  think  such  wenches  are  angels  out  of 
the  sky.  Turn  her  out  of  that — nun  or  woman  ! " 

With  a  savage  rush  of  scalding  blood  to  his  sun-bronzed 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  427 

cheeks  and  temples,  P.  C.  Breagh  realized  that  they  meant 
Juliette.  He  thrust  his  head  forward,  peering  down  from 
his  eyrie.  The  crouching  little  shape  in  black  looked  no 
bigger  than  a  big  dog.  Near  her  stood  a  soldier  in  the 
white-faced  dark  blue  uniform  of  the  Guard  Infantry.  It 
was  the  spectacled  ex-chemist  Kunz,  who  had  nodded  him 
civil  farewell.  Staring  up  from  below  was  the  copper- 
colored  countenance  of  the  too-zealous  Sergeant  Schmidt, 
not  rendered  more  amiable  by  mud-splashes  and  powder 
grime,  in  combination  with  a  stitched-up  scar  across  the 
bridge  of  the  nose,  and  a  flamboyant  overgrowth  of  beard. 
He  bellowed  to  the  ex-chemist: 

' '  Speak  to  her !    Ask  what  is  her  business. ' ' 

The  spectacled  Kunz  stooped  over  the  little  bowed  head, 
and  seemed  to  put  a  question.  She  lifted  her  drained  white 
face,  shuddered,  then  resumed  her  previous  attitude.  In- 
terrogated from  below,  Private  Kunz  responded: 

"She  is  deaf,  or  mad.  She  only  shakes  and  stares  at 
one!" 

The  Sergeant  bellowed : 

"Shout  in  her  ear,  fool!  You  are  not  courting  your 
sweetheart !  Tell  her  to  get  up  and  move  out  of  this ! ' ' 

Thus  urged,  the  ex-chemist  approached  his  lips  to  the 
little  ear  shaded  by  the  black  silken  tresses,  and  bawled 
the  order  of  his  superior.  She  gave  no  sign  of  having 
heard.  Copper-red  with  indignation,  the  Sergeant  com- 
manded : 

' '  Turn  her  out.  then !    Promptly  up  with  the  baggage ! ' ' 

Kunz,  thus  adjured,  gripped  the  slight  arm,  not  brutally. 
At  the  touch,  Juliette  gave  a  faint  cry,  and  crouched  lower, 
hiding  her  face  upon  the  rigid  hand  she  held.  And  P.  C. 
Breagh  saw  red,  abandoned  his  groaning  cavalryman  and 
leaped  for  it,  slithering  down  from  the  summit  of  his  dread- 
ful eyrie  with  a  roll  of  four-inch  bandaging  trailing  in 
his  wake.  Casting  caution  to  the  winds,  he  shouted  sav- 
agely to  the  ex-chemist : 

' '  Let  the  lady  go !  Take  your  hand  off !  Damn  you ! — 
do  you  hear  ? ' ' 

The  words,  being  English,  were  not  comprehended  by  the 
Sergeant.  For  an  instant  he  stared  open-mouthed  at  the 
unexpected  apparition.  The  next  he  had  bawled  out  an 
order  to  his  men,  and  P.  C.  Breagh  found  himself  looking 
down  the  long  brown  barrels  of  a  couple  of  Prussian 


428  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"needlers, "  accurately  covering  the  exact  area  of  waist- 
coat behind  which  his  heart  hammered  and  bumped.  There 
was  a  creaking  of  leather  then — and  with  the  jingle  of 
steel  on  steel,  the  snort  of  a  horse  reluctant  to  be  ridden 
into  an  alley  without  turning-space.  Over  the  heads  of 
the  Sergeant  and  his  party  rose  the  pricked  ears,  sagacious 
eyes,  and  broad  frontlet  of  a  great,  gaunt  brown  mare,  rid- 
den by  a  gigantic  field  officer,  wearing  the  flat  white,  yellow- 
banded  forage  cap,  black  pewter-buttoned  frock,  white 
cords,  and  immense  spurred  jack-boots  of  the  Coburg  regi- 
ment of  White  Cuirassiers. 

"Whom  have  we  English  here?  Who  called  out  'Take 
your  hands  off ! '  : 

From  under  the  peak  of  the  white  forage-cap  the  rider's 
heavy  domineering  stare  took  in  the  huddled  feminine  fig- 
ure, the  disheveled  young  man  menaced  by  the  Service 
rifles,  and  the  truculent  attitude  of  Sergeant  Schmidt.  He 
lifted  a  finger,  and  the  "needlers"  became  vertical.  He 
beckoned  with  the  authoritative  digit,  and  P.  C.  Breagh 
drew  near.  And  the  sickening  horrors  of  the  battlefield 
faded  suddenly  from  about  the  Englishman.  .  .  .  He  was 
back  in  the  tobacco-scented  study  of  a  house  in  the  Wil- 
helmstrasse,  Berlin.  And  the  resonant  tones  of  the  man 
who  stood  for  Prussia  in  the  mind's  eye  of  the  world  were 
saying,  in  Bismarck 's  well-phrased  English : 

' '  Even  though  you  belong  to  a  neutral  nation,  you  should 
not  presume  upon  the  fact  too  rashly.  Had  I  not  been 
within  earshot  just  now,  you  would  have  paid  with  your 
life  for  your  interference.  German  military  authority  is 
supreme,  and  in  the  execution  of  its  duty  not  to  be  turned 
aside." 

P.  C.  Breagh  retorted,  tingling  to  the  very  finger-tips : 

"Your  Excellency,  I  interfered  to  save  this  lady  from 
ill-usage. ' ' 

' '  She  is  a  Frenchwoman  ?  .  .  .  Explain  to  her, ' '  said  the 
resonant  voice  coldly  and  brutally,  ' '  that  even  to  reach  the 
side  of  a  fallen  lover,  too  much  may  be  risked  and  lost ! ' ' 

P.  C.  Breagh  said,  meeting  the  imperious  stare  with  yel- 
low-gray eyes  that  blazed  tigerishly : 

' '  Excellency,  the  dead  man  is  her  father,  Colonel  de  Bay- 
ard, 777th  Mounted  Chasseurs  of  the  Imperial  Guard." 

"Stand  back,"  said  the  domineering  voice,  "and  I  will 
speak  to  her ! ' ' 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  429 

At  a  touch  of  the  spur  the  great  brown  mare  moved  for- 
ward, breasting  a  lance-shaft  that  barred  the  narrow  alley, 
terribly  squeezing  the  Sergeant  and  his  men. 

"Mademoiselle  de  Bayard!"  said  the  authoritative  "voice. 

' '  Excellency,  she  does  not  hear  you !  The  shock  has  been 
too  terrible,"  Carolan  was  beginning.  He  was  brusquely 
interrupted  with : 

' '  People  usually  listen  when  I  speak  to  them. ' '  And  the 
curt  command  was  issued — in  French,  suave  and  polished : 

"Be  good  enough,  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard,  to  stand  up 
and  listen  to  me ! " 

The  big  brown  mare  snorted  angrily  and  fidgeted.  He 
turned  her  head  with  an  iron  hand  on  the  curb-bit,  looking 
steadily  at  the  other  female  thing. 

' '  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard,  do  you  hear  ? ' ' 

This  time  she  lifted  her  sunken  head,  and  turned  her 
small  pinched  face  his  way.  In  the  haggard  young  mask 
of  frozen  anguish  two  wild  eyes  glittered,  tearless  and 
stony-hard.  Then  slowly,  as  though  his  powerful  will  im- 
pelled her,  she  rose  to  her  knees,  and  stood  upon  her  feet 
before  him.  He  said,  in  cool,  incisive  accents : 

"Young  lady,  your  father  was  a  gallant  soldier.  I  my- 
self had  the  privilege  of  seeing  how  he  died.  I  wish  such  a 
man  had  served  a  better  master !  .  .  . " 

She  answered,  her  white  lips  barely  moving  as  they 
framed  the  sentence: 

"He  served  the  Master  of  Kings  and  Emperors,  before 
"Whom  he  stands  now ! ' ' 

His  somber  eyes  lightened  suddenly  as  though  in  irrita- 
tion. He  said  in  tones  that  had  the  clang  of  overbearing 
authority : 

"I  cannot  enter  now  into  a  theological  discussion.  The 
battle-field  is  no  place  for  debate,  or  for  unprotected  women 
and  young  girls.  ...  In  your  own  best  interests  I  counsel 
you  to  return  home. ' '  He  added — and  there  was  no  flicker 
of  recognition  in  the  passing  glance  vouchsafed  to  P.  C. 
Breagh:  "Alone,  if  you  prefer — or  under  the  escort  of 
this  young  Englishman.  ...  I  will  promise  you  that  your 
father's  body  shall  be  treated  with  respect!"  His  heavy 
eyes  fell  on  the  stiffened  face  of  the  Sergeant,  standing 
rigidly  in  the  attitude  of  salute.  "Where  is  the  officer  in 
charge  of  this  burial-party?"  he  added,  grimly  enough. 

' '  Here,  Excellency ! ' '  came  from  behind  him.  He  glanced 


430  THE    MA1ST   OF    IRON 

over  his  shoulder  and  said  to  the  flurried  under-lieutenant 
who  had  hurried  up  and  was  standing  in  the  alleyway : 

"A  separate  grave,  distinguished  by  some  mark  that  is 
recognizable  by  the  daughter."  He  looked  back  at  the 
daughter,  saying  curtly :  ' '  Your  veil ! ' ' 

She  removed  it  in  silence,  and  handed  it  to  the  ex- 
chemist,  who  received  the  frail  fluttering  cobweb  between 
his  finger  and  thumb.  Then  the  brown  mare,  in  obedience 
to  the  iron  hand  upon  the  bridle,  backed  out  of  the  alley 
of  silent  witnesses,  baring  her  long,  vicious-looking  yellow 
teeth  and  showing  the  whites  of  her  savage  eyes  resentfully. 
From  the  florid  bull-dog  face  of  her  rider,  barred  with  the 
heavy  mustache  of  iron  gray,  all  memory  of  the  little 
drama  just  enacted  had  been  effaced,  as  the  outlines  of  a 
sketch  in  charcoal  are  wiped  from  wood  or  stone. 

But  as  the  alley  widened  and  his  great  beast  surged 
round,  switching  her  tail,  putting  back  her  ears  and  lash- 
ing out  with  her  heels  so  as  to  nearly  brain  the  officer,  P.  C. 
Breagh  thought  he  caught  the  words : 

' '  Separate  grave  .  .  .  marked  to  find  easily.  All  respect 
.  .  .  answer  to  me!" 

More  he  might  have  heard,  but  for  Juliette's  sobbing. 
For  God  had  remembered  her,  and  sent  her  tears  at  last. 

She  had  suddenly  seen,  lying  at  her  feet,  a  frayed  and 
crumpled  envelope  bearing  the  Belgian  postmark,  and  ad- 
dressed in  her  own  handwriting  to  M.  le  Colonel  H.  A.  A. 
de  Bayard,  Headquarters  of  the  777th  Mounted  Chasseurs 
of  the  Guard  Imperial  with  the  Army  of  France,  at  Mete. 
And  the  intuition  of  love  told  her  that  the  dead  man  must 
have  carried  this,  the  last  message  received  from  his  daugh- 
ter, hidden  in  his  bosom;  and  have  drawn  it  forth  and 
kissed  it — as  in  very  truth  we  know  he  had — shortly  be- 
fore he  died. 

"See,  see,  my  friend!  Behold  my  own  letter.  His 
sacred  blood  has  stained  it.  ...  His  lips  perhaps  have 
pressed  it! — it  well  may  be  that  tears  of  his  have  fallen 
here  also!  .  .  .  Never  shall  it  leave  me  until  my  hand  is 
cold  as  this  is!  Adieu,  dear  hand!"  She  knelt  down  to 
fondle  it,  had  to  be  raised  almost  by  force — would  have 
returned  for  a  last  caress — a  final  prayer,  but  that  P.  C. 
Breagh,  rendered  desperate  by  the  evident  impatience  of 
the  officer  and  the  scowling  looks  of  the  Sergeant  and  his 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  431 

merry  men,  lifted  her  bodily  in  his  arms  and  carried  her 
away. 

"I  pray  you  put  me  down!  .  .  .  Me,  I  am  not  an  in- 
fant!" she  protested.  "See  you  well,  Monsieur  Breagh,  I 
do  not  think  it  conv enable  that  a  gentleman  should  carry  a 
lady  so!  .  .  ." 

Then  her  strength  ebbed  from  her  and  she  became  in 
truth,  an  infant.  As  her  frail  body  yielded  to  his  clasp,  as 
her  head  sank  down  upon  his  shoulder,  she  sighed,  a  long, 
quivering  sigh. 

What  of  the  youth  who  waded  through  the  frozen  sea  of 
Death,  bearing  in  his  arms  his  worshiped  lady?  He  was 
footsore  and  aching  in  every  bone  and  muscle  from  long 
marches  and  desperate  exertion.  His  heart  pounded  so  be- 
neath her  cheek  that  it  seemed  to  him  she  must  hear  it  and 
be  frightened,  or  that  he  must  suffocate  and  die  outright. 
Terror  and  rapture,  exquisite  pain  and  exquisite  pleasure, 
mingled  in  the  draught  now  held  to  his  lips  by  Fate,  Life 's 
cup-bearer.  And  as  he  drank,  with  what  strange  birth- 
pangs,  his  budding  manhood  burgeoned  into  flower.  He 
might  look  back  upon  his  boyhood  with  regret,  contempt,  or 
tenderness.  .  .  .  He  would  never  be  a  boy  again. 


THE  smallest  and  slenderest  of  women  can  be  surprisingly 
heavy,  when  carried  in  the  arms  of  a  lover  who  long  has 
borne  her  in  his  heart. 

Thus  to  P.  C.  Breagh,  stumbling  with  his  burden  over 
roads  strewn  with  weapons,  accouterments,  mess-tins,  and 
water-bottles,  boxes  of  biscuit  and  halves  of  sugar-loaves 
discarded  by  troops  retiring  in  haste,  the  appearance  of  a 
very  tall  peasant  leading  a  little  white-faced  donkey  came 
as  an  unspeakably  welcome  relief.  For  a  franc  in  good 
French  mon^y  the  owner  of  the  donkey  was  more  than  will- 
ing to  hire  out  his  beast.  Thus,  seated  on  this  humble  ani- 
mal, P.  C.  Breagh 's  Infanta  returned  to  the  cottage  where 
she  had  passed  the  previous  night. 

It  was  one  of  a  hamlet  boasting  the  name  of  Petit  Plappe- 
ville.  To  reach  it  they  skirted  the  frightful  carnage  at  St. 


432  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Hubert,  threaded  the  wood  of  Chatel  St.  Germain,  crossed 
the  railroad,  unmolested  by  the  Prussian  patrols,  and,  fol- 
lowing narrow  lanes  hidden  between  copses,  came  at  last 
upon  its  single  street. 

Madame  Guyot,  stout,  hospitable,  and  voluble,  received 
Juliette  with  cries  of  welcome  and  open  arms.  Mademoi- 
selle should  have  something  better  than  dry  bread  on  this 
occasion,  for  a  neighbor  had  that  morning  killed  a  calf. 
Hence  veal  cutlet,  fried  in  batter — for  some  of  the  hens, 
scared  by  yesterday's  bombardment,  had  already  begun 
laying — and  an  omelette  with  fine  herbs.  No  less  than 
young  demoiselles,  wounded  soldiers  require  nourishment, 
and  here  behold,  English  Monsieur  accompanying  Made- 
moiselle, here  upon  the  pallet-bed  in  the  corner  of  the 
kitchen  one  of  France's  brave  defenders  in  the  person  of 
my  Cousin  Boisset.  Pardon  that  he  cannot  rise  to  salute 
you,  for  the  Prussians  have  made  it  impossible.  During 
the  battle  of  St.  Privat  yesterday,  my  Cousin  Boisset  was 
twice  wounded  while  serving  with  the  Eighteenth  Field 
Battery  of  the  Sixth  Army  Corps.  .  .  . 

Thus  introduced,  the  gunner  told  his  story,  and  told  it 
with  vivacity  in  spite  of  his  evident  pain.  His  bandaged 
head  and  the  useless  leg  roughly  swathed  in  a  homespun 
towel  of  Madame  Guyot's  told  their  story  no  less  than  his 
nimble  tongue  and  vivacious  eyes  and  hands. 

"We  were  overcome  by  force  of  numbers.  .  .  .  The  Ger- 
mans know  nothing  of  scientific  warfare.  .  .  .  Believe  me, 
Mademoiselle  and  Monsieur,  we  swept  them  down  in  rows 
like  ninepins  painted  black.  At  twelve  hundred  yards,  and 
again  at  fourteen  hundred — and  the  more  we  killed  the 
more  there  were  to  kill.  Name  of  a  pipe ! — pardon,  Made- 
moiselle!— it  was  inconceivable!  We  were  compelled  at 
length  to  cease  our  fire  because  our  ammunition  failed  us, 
and  it  was  not  possible  to  butcher  any  more ! — Worst  of  all, 
our  generals  lost  their  heads,  and  issued  contradictory  or- 
ders!— Commissariat  broke  down  before  the  ammunition- 
service — we  had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  two  days — then  we 
ceased  to  have  shrapnel  with  which  to  feed  our  guns.  .  .  . 
So  we  stood  in  front  of  a  wood  in  which  we  might  have 
taken  cover,  being  peppered  by  Prussian  fire  of  infantry 
and  artillery,  for  three  whole  hours! — Three  solid  hours, 
Monsieur  and  Mademoiselle — until  we  were  remembered, 
and  ordered  to  retire.  When  the  order  came,  few  officers 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  433 

remained,  and  not  a  single  non-commissioned  officer  was  left 
to  us.  Of  the  three  batteries  of  our  brigade  Division,  two- 
thirds  lay  dead  upon  the  field.  With  my  wounded  leg 
trailing  behind  me,  I  crawled  over  rank  after  rank  of 
bodies,  pausing  over  many  of  my  old  comrades.  .  .  .  Then 
I  lay  in  the  wood  till  dusk,  and  made  crutches  of  saplings  I 
cut  down  with  my  penknife.  With  the  day  I  reached  my 
cousin's  house.  .  .  .  You  may  say  'All  this  is  War' — but 
what  kind  of  War  ?  is  what  I  ask  you.  .  .  .  I — a  soldier  who* 
has  fought  and  bled  for  France ! ' ' 

It  was  the  voice  of  Juliette  that  answered  from  the  cor- 
ner of  the  blackened  oaken  settle,  where  she  sat  huddled 
in  the  leaden  stupor  that  is  born  of  grief  and  fatigue : 

"Soldier  of  France,  I  will  try  to  answer  your  question. 
...  I  am  young  and  ignorant,  but  I  have  read  and  thought 
much.  And  now  I  have  experienced  what  never  can  be  for- 
gotten. ...  I  have  sat  by  the  corpse  of  my  father  on  the 
battlefield.  ...  I  have  looked  in  the  face  of  the  great  man 
who  is  my  country 's  cruel  enemy.  ..." 

Madame  Guyot,  who  was  frying  a  panful  of  veal  cutlet, 
started  and  looked  round  from  her  sputtering,  savory- 
smelling  cookery.  The  wounded  gunner,  propped  up  on 
the  pallet-bed  that  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  low-ceiled, 
stone-built  kitchen,  turned  keen  dark  eyes  and  a  resolute 
bearded  face  toward  the  quarter  whence  came  the  silvery 
voice : 

"It  is  Bismarck's  War,"  she  said.  "Stone  by  stone  he 
has  built  up  Prussia  until  her  vast  shadow  has  swallowed 
up  all  Germany.  He  has  seen — this  huge  man  of  colossal 
ambitions — that  the  road  to  Power  greater  still  leads 
through  the  gate  of  France.  And  Diplomacy  could  not 
steal  the  key,  so  War  is  the  lever  with  which  he  opens  it. ' ' 

"Alas,  Mademoiselle,"  returned  the  gunner  sorrowfully, 
"it  would  never  have  opened  while  a  French  soldier  was 
left  alive — if  we  had  not  been  betrayed!  Have  you  seen 
the  picture  of  Cham  in  last  week's  Charivari?  It  reached 
my  battery  through  one  of  our  officers.  It  is  true — mon 
Dieu! — it  is  desperately  true.  There  is  the  Little  Napoleon 
of  To-day  dressed  up  in  the  old  cocked  hat  and  the  tattered 
rags  of  the  capote  that  used  to  be  worn  by  the  Great  Na- 
poleon. He  begs  at  the  street-corner  for  sous — and  even 
the  prostitute  turns  away  from  the  impostor.  '  The  End  of 
the  Legend!'  is  written  underneath.  It  is  furiously  chic 


434  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

and  terribly  clever — and  frightfully  true,  Mademoiselle. 
For  the  Napoleonic  legend  is  done  with — finished,  for  good 
and  all!" 

She  did  not  answer,  the  momentary  flash  of  interest  had 
died  out.  "With  her  sad  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ebony  and 
silver  crucifix  of  her  rosary,  she  was  murmuring  a  prayer 
— doubtless  for  her  father's  soul.  Seeing  her  thus  ab- 
sorbed, the  soldier  glanced  at  her  companion,  shrugged  sig- 
nificantly, and  tapped  his  own  forehead,  as  though  he 
would  have  said : 

"It  is  well  that  women  have  faith  in  Heaven.  See! — 
she  turns  to  her  beads,  the  poor  little  one.  She  is  able  to 
pray ! — that  is  fortunate.  .  .  .  Otherwise,  grief  would  turn 
her  brain!" 

Meeting  no  response  from  P.  C.  Breagh,  who  sat  upon  a 
backless  straw-bottomed  chair  in  the  chimney  corner,  rapt- 
ly  contemplating  the  small,  sorrowful  face,  the  gunner 
shrugged  again,  and  exchanged  a  wink  of  intelligence  with 
Madame  Guyot,  as  she  took  the  bubbling  pan  from  the  fire, 
proclaiming  the  cutlet  cooked  to  a  turn. 

Who  has  loved  and  does  not  remember  the  first  meal  par- 
taken in  the  company  of  the  beloved.  To  one  guest  at 
Madame  Guyot's  board,  the  fried  cutlet  and  tomatoes  eaten 
from  her  coarse  platters  of  red-flowered  crockery,  the 
home-baked  loaf,  the  jug  of  thin  red  wine,  the  country 
cheese  and  the  dish  of  purple  plums  that  served  as  dessert, 
made  a  banquet  worthy  of  the  gods.  To  sit  opposite  that 
little  drawn,  white  face  with  the  lowered,  swollen  eyelids, 
and  watch  her  brave  pretense  of  relishing  their  hostess ' 
victuals,  would  have  been  torture  had  it  not  been  bliss. 

When  the  homespun  cloth  had  been  drawn,  the  crumbs 
shaken  out  upon  the  threshold  for  the  hungry  poultry,  the 
cat  accommodated  with  a  saucer  of  scraps,  and  the  hearth 
swept,  P.  C.  Breagh,  glancing  at  the  cuckoo-clock  that  had 
hiccuped  twelve,  and  now  pointed  to  the  half-hour,  got  up 
and  reluctantly  tore  himself  away. 

"You  are  going?  .  .  .  Back  to  him?  ...  To  make  sure 
that  those  soldiers  have  obeyed  the  orders  of  M.  de  Bis- 
marck ?  Ah !  that  is  what  I  have  been  praying  for !  Our 
Lady  has  put  it  into  your  head." 

She  said  it  eagerly,  with  her  hand  quieting  the  flutter  in 
her  bosom.  Of  what  else  should  de  Bayard's  daughter 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  435 

have  been  thinking,  P.  C.  Breagh  asked  himself.  He  en- 
treated, his  troubled  gray  eyes  wistfully  questioning: 

' '  You  won 't  leave  this  place  until  I  come  back  ?  Pray  do 
not !  .  .  .  Promise  me ! " 

The  soldier,  chatting  in  low  tones  with  the  good  woman 
of  the  cottage,  pricked  his  hairy  ears  at  the  unfamiliar  ac- 
cent of  the  English  words.  Juliette  answered  in  the  same 
tongue : 

"Monsieur,  I  give  you  my  parole  of  honor.  When  you 
come  back  to  this  house,  if  I  am  alive,  you  will  find  me 
here,  under  the  manteau  of  Our  Lady.  May  she  protect 
and  guard  you.  Au  revoir!  .  .  ." 

P.  C.  Breagh  echoed  the  final  words,  and  held  out  his  big 
hand.  She  considered  it  a  moment,  hesitated,  then  laid  her 
own  in  the  broad,  blistered  palm.  As  he  shut  his  strong 
fingers  over  the  fragile  captive,  it  struggled,  then  lay  still, 
throbbing  like  some  small  imprisoned  bird.  And  a  dimness 
came  before  his  eyes,  and  he  hurriedly  released  her,  stam- 
mering : 

"Take — take  care  of  yourself,  won't  you?  I'll — not  be 
very  long  away!" 

She  called  him  back.  He  knew  a  shock  of  joy  and  hur- 
ried toward  her.  She  slipped  her  Rosary  into  his  hand 
with  a  gold  coin,  faltering  with  eyes  brimful,  and  quiver- 
ing lips: 

"This  ...  to  be  buried  with  him!  .  .  .  This — for  a 
priest  to  read  the  Office  and  offer  Mass  ...  if  one  can  be 
discovered !  .  .  .  Oh !  if  I  might  come  with  you !  .  .  .  but 
no ! — I  will  not  be  unreasonable.  Again,  it  must  not  be  that 
you  carry  me,  as  you  did  to-day !" 

He  trembled  at  the  poignant  recollection.  She  went  on, 
breathing  fast  and  eagerly,  lifting  her  eyes,  poor  rain- 
washed  scillas,  to  his — laying  her  small  hand  timidly  on  his 
shabby  sleeve. 

"Me,  I  have  an  idea!  .  .  .  There  is  now  in  Heaven  a 
great  saint  who  was  priest  of  a  little  village  that  lies  not  far 
from  here.  .  .  .  Since  he  died,  it  is  eleven  years.  ...  I 
speak  of  M.  Jean-Baptiste  Vianney,  the  Blessed  Cure  of 
Ars.  ..." 

P.  C.  Breagh  nodded  recognition  of  the  shining  name  she 
mentioned.  She  went  on,  her  small  fingers  pinching  a  fold 
of  the  rough  brown  sleeve : 


436  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Sacrifice — mortification — the  Cross — these  things  to  the 
holy  Cure  were  the  Keys  of  Heaven.  The  poorest  and 
simplest  of  his  peasants  was  not  poorer  or  simpler  than  he. 
Even  before  his  death  Our  Lord  gave  him  the  grace  to 
perform  miracles,  and  always  did  Our  Lady  regard  him 
with  tenderness.  .  .  .  See  you  well,  I  will  pray  to  the 
Blessed  Jean  Vianney  to  intercede  for  me,  that  God  may 
send  a  holy  priest  to  read  the  Office  for  the  dead ! ' ' 

Her  voice  broke,  and  the  bright  tears  brimmed  over  her 
pure  underlids.  At  the  sight  a  wave  of  tenderness  surged 
up  in  him,  pure  of  all  sensuous  passion,  knowing  only  the 
overwhelming  desire  to  serve,  and  comfort,  and  protect. 
...  He  bent  his  head,  and  kissed  the  little  hand,  before  he 
turned  and  went  from  her.  When  he  glanced  back,  midway 
down  the  wide  dusty  street  of  the  hamlet  of  scattered  cot- 
tages, Juliette  was  standing  in  the  sunshine,  looking  ear- 
nestly after  him. 


LI 

SHE  could  think  clearly  and  remember  again.  The  con- 
fusion in  her  overwrought  brain  gradually  subsided.  She 
went  back  to  the  fatal  days  when  the  news  of  the  defeats 
of  Worth  and  Spicheren  rushed  shrieking  through  France 
and  Belgium,  and  the  16th  of  August  brought  word  of 
Bazaine's  intercepted  retreat  from  Metz.  That  day  a 
young  girl,  sitting  under  the  grisly  wing  of  Madame  Tessier 
at  the  table  d'hote  of  the  Hotel  de  Flandre,  in  Brussels, 
had  risen  up  as  pale  as  death  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

The  picture  was  clear-cut,  definite  as  a  photograph.  She 
saw  the  tables  in  confusion.  .  .  .  French  guests  uprising, 
the  men  exclaiming,  and  the  ladies  in  tears, — Belgians  sym- 
pathizing— Teutons  exchanging  congratulatory  eye-glances, 
and  smiles  not  at  all  concealed.  As  the  white  girl  passed 
the  chair  from  which  a  German  cavalry  officer  had  risen,  he 
whipped  the  obstacle  out  of  her  way  with  an  ogle  and  a 
bow.  And  Juliette,  covering  her  eyes  as  though  the  sight 
of  him  scorched  them,  had  fled  past  him.  ...  As  she 
quitted  the  salle  a  manger,  the  voice  of  Madame  Tessier  had 
reached  her,  saying  grimly  to  the  dandy: 

' '  A  civility  from  one  of  your  nation  at  such  a  moment  is 
an  insult,  Monsieur." 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  437 

And  Madame,  with  bristling  mustaches,  had  also  risen, 
and  gone  in  search  of  her  daughter-in-law  elect,  to  be 
arrested  at  the  foot  of  the  grand  staircase  by  a  waiter  with 
the  intelligence  that  Mademoiselle  had  gone  to  her  room  to 
lie  down,  and  begged  not  to  be  disturbed.  ...  To  which 
apartment,  it  being  on  the  third  floor,  Madame  Tessier — 
having  wound  up  the  twelve-o'clock  dejeuner  of  hot  meats 
and  vegetables  and  salad  with  coffee  and  pastry, — did  not 
follow  her.  Had  she  braved  the  ascent,  this  story  would 
have  ended  in  quite  a  different  way. 

Upon  this  day,  that  saw  the  battle  of  Mars  la  Tour,  Juli- 
ette would  not  have  met  the  elegant,  self-possessed,  in- 
gratiating lady  who  had  spoken  to  her  so  amiably  on  the 
previous  afternoon.  When — Madame  Tessier  being  en- 
gaged in  changing  a  French  billet  de  ~banque  into  Belgian 
money — Juliette  had  inquired  for  letters  at  the  bureau. 

"  'Mademoiselle  de  Bayard.'  .  .  .  Unhappily  there  is 
not  a  single  letter  for  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard  ..."  had 
said  the  curled  and  whiskered  functionary,  taking  an  enve- 
lope from  compartment  "B"  of  the  green  baize-covered 
letter-rack,  and  handing  it  to  this  lady,  who  stood  imme- 
diately behind. 

Juliette  had  found  it  impossible  not  to  see  the  address 
upon  this  letter: 

"To   MADAME   DE   BAYE, 
"HOTEL  DE  FLANDRE, 
' '  BRUSSELS,  ' ' 

written  in  rather  a  vulgar  scrawl.  It  carried  extra  stamps, 
and  looked  bulky.  And  the  elegantly-gloved  hand  that  was 
extended  to  take  it,  recoiled  from  the  contact  as  though  the 
envelope  had  concealed  a  scorpion. 

The  owner  of  the  hand  had  regarded  Mademoiselle  de 
Bayard  with  a  piercing  and  exhaustive  scrutiny,  even  as 
she  slipped  the  letter  into  a  gold-mounted  reticule,  and 
snapped  the  spring  tight.  She  had  observed  in  soft  and 
well-bred  accents : 

"Letters  from  one  we  love  are  enhanced  in  value,  when 
the  writer  must  lay  down  the  sword  to  use  the  pen.  ..." 

Through  a  black  lace  veil  so  thickly  flowered  as  to 
suggest  a  mask,  a  pair  of  brilliant  eyes  glittered  at  Juliette. 
What  dazzling  teeth  were  revealed  by  the  crimson  lips 


438  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

that  smiled.  .  .  .  The  well-bred  voice  added,  with  an  en- 
trancing touch  of  melancholy: 

"Under  other  circumstances,  to  address  Mademoiselle 
would  be  held  a  liberty — the  speaker  being  a  stranger. 
Yet  as  the  wife  of  a  French  officer  of  the  Imperial  Guard, — 
I  may  be  pardoned  for  presuming  in  my  young  country- 
woman an  anxiety  similar  to  my  own?  ..." 

"Ah,  Madame,"  Juliette  had  said  impulsively,  "who  is 
there  wrould  not  pardon  you?" 

And  she  had  looked  with  a  young  girl's  honest  admiration 
at  the  sumptuous  form  in  the  perfectly-appointed  dress. 
When  the  lady  had  said,  with  brilliant  eyes  fixed  on  her : 

"Were  this  letter  not  from  my  husband,  I  could  wish  it 
had  been  for  you,"  she  continued:  "Does  Mademoiselle 
know  M.  de  Baye's  regiment?  The  777th  Mounted  Chas- 
seurs .  .  .?" 

"My  father  commands  it,  Madame,"  Juliette  had 
proudly  answered.  And  an  animated  conversation  would 
have  sprung  from  this  answer,  but  Madame  Tessier  turned 
round  rather  sharply,  and  the  lady,  with  a  slight,  graceful 
inclination,  had  glided  rather  rapidly  away. 

Later,  Juliette  had  encountered  Madame  de  Baye  upon 
the  staircase,  and  had  received  another  of  her  brilliant 
glances,  and  another  of  her  entrancing  smiles.  And,  being 
lonely  in  this  strange  land,  and  athirst  for  interest  and 
companionship,  the  young  girl  had  woven  a  little  romance 
out  of  this  passing  acquaintanceship. 

Now  as  she  reached  her  room,  trembling  and  ready  to 
sink  with  excitement  and  agitation,  a  woman  stopped  her 
in  the  corridor,  who  looked  like  a  lady's  maid  of  the  better 
class.  Well  mannered,  smart  and  discreet,  she  dropped 
Mademoiselle  de  Bayard  an  ingratiating  curtsey,  handing 
her  at  the  same  time  a  little  three-cornered  note. 

As  the  messenger  plainly  waited  for  an  answer,  Juliette 
unfolded  the  delicately  perfumed  cocked-hat.  This  is  what 
she  read  in  a  finely-pointed  feminine  caligraphy,  with  lasso- 
loops  to  all  the  "g's,"  "y's,"  and  "h's,"  and  "s's"  of  the 
prolonged,  old-fashioned  kind. 

The  maid  had  penned  it  at  the  dictation  of  her  mistress, 
who  for  an  unexplained  reason  preferred  another  hand  to 
bait  her  hook.  This  is  what  Juliette  read  between  her 
heart-beats,  striving  to  check  her  flowing  tears,  and  the 
sobs  that  rose  in  her  throat: 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  439 

"To  you,  Mademoiselle,  so  spirituelle,  gentille  and  amia- 
ble, I  am  fated,  alas!  to  cause  the  greatest  grief.  I  have 
received  the  most  terrible  news  of  my  husband's  regiment. 
The  reports  of  the  Emperor's  resignation  are  false  from 
the  beginning.  The  Army  of  Metz,  Mademoiselle,  has 
encountered  Prussian  forces.  .  .  .  Where  I  knoiv  not,  but 
with  terrible  loss!  My  Victor  has  been  dangerously 
wounded  and  conveyed  to  hospital  at  Metz.  1  fly  thither 
on  the  wings  of  anxiety  and  tenderness  to  receive  too  pos- 
sibly! his  final  kiss.  Also  I  learn  that  M.  le  Colonel  de 
Bayard  has  been  taken  prisoner.  .  .  .  My  pen  trembles  as 
I  write  the  words. 

"Since  I  may  not  tender  them  personally,  receive,  Made- 
moiselle, my  condolences  and  farewells.  May  Heaven  pro- 
tect you! 

"Distractedly  and  devotedly, 

"A.  DE  BAYE." 

Madame  was  packing,  said  the  maid  upon  whom  Juliette 
turned  with  a  breathless  inquiry.  Without  doubt  Madame 
would  receive  Mademoiselle.  .  .  .  And,  having  previously 
been  primed  with  instructions,  Mariette,  whom  not  so  long 
ago  we  encountered  in  Berlin,  conducted  Mademoiselle  to  a 
door  upon  the  lower  landing,  and  having  knocked  discreetly 
ushered  the  young  lady  in. 

It  was  a  bedroom  crowded  with  trunks  and  imperials, 
none  of  which  seemed  to  have  been  unpacked.  The  lovely 
lady  of  the  veil  was  standing  near  the  toilette-table  in  a 
thoughtful  pose  which  did  justice  to  her  figure  and  the 
beauty  of  her  profile.  She  had  removed  her  veil  and  held 
it  in  her  hand,  as  she  changed  the  position  of  a  jeweled 
comb  in  her  hair.  .  .  .  She  looked  round  as  the  door 
opened.  Her  brilliant  eyes,  ruddy-brown  as  Persian  sard 
or  Brazilian  tourmaline,  encountered  the  tearful  eyes  of 
Juliette.  She  advanced  to  meet  the  girl  with  effusive 
tenderness,  crying: 

' '  Alas,  poor  little  one !    From  my  heart  I  pity  you !  .  .  . " 

She  was  not  so  beautiful,  unveiled,  as  she  had  appeared 
behind  her  mask  of  black  lace  flowers.  The  handsome 
eyes  were  bloodshot  and  too  prominent.  There  were  faint 
dusky-red  streaks  showing  through  the  purchased  roses 
and  lilies  of  her  complexion ;  horizontal  marks,  resembling 
the  congenital  disfigurement  known  as  "port- wine  stain." 


440 

And  withal  she  was  an  attractive  woman  of  fascinating 
manners.  And  her  sympathy  seemed  genuine,  and  yet — 
for  some  incomprehensible  reason,  Juliette  trembled  at  and 
shrank  from  her  touch.  .  .  . 

"You  are  too  good  to  receive  me — you  who  are  also 
suffering!  ..."  She  tried  to  collect  herself,  and  not 
cause  distress.  "How  I  pity  you  I  cannot  tell  you!  but 
at  least  you  have  the  knowledge  that  you  are  returning  to 
your  husband's  bedside.  You  will  have  the  sad  consola- 
tion of  seeing  him,  while  I  ..." 

She  broke  down  and  sobbed,  and  the  sympathetic  Ade- 
laide administered  red  lavender  on  sugar,  while  her  maid 
kept  guard  on  the  landing  to  intercept  Madame  Tessier 
should  she  appear.  The  cock-and-bull  story  told  the  girl 
would  hardly  have  borne  the  test  of  recital  before  a  third 
person.  But  Juliette  was  young,  and  innocent  and  unsus- 
pecting, and  Adelaide  was  experienced  in  the  ways  of  the 
world,  and  very  old  in  guile.  .  .  . 

"Courage,  my  child,  and  above  all,  have  faith  in 
Heaven!"  It  did  not  at  all  suit  her  voluptuous  type,  the 
heroic-pious  tone.  .  .  .  "Naturally  you  will,  knowing  M. 
le  Colonel  a  prisoner,  leave  nothing  undone  to  assuage  the 
miseries  of  his  situation!  .  .  .  Have  I  guessed  right?  I 
venture  to  think  I  have !"  She  patted  Juliette's  hand  and 
smiled  in  the  drowned  blue  eyes,  from  which  she  gently 
drew  the  little  soaked  handkerchief.  "Accompanied  by 
your  venerable  protectress,  you  will  instantly  return  to 
France.  You  will  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  obtain  an 
interview  with  the  Emperor — you  will  implore  him  on  your 
knees  to  obtain  M.  le  Colonel's  exchange.  .  .  .  Presto! 
the  Emperor  will  set  the  machinery  in  motion.  He  will 
give  back  three  Officers  to  the  King  of  Prussia — and  Made- 
moiselle will  have  her  father  again!  Is  it  not  so,  tell  me, 
my  little  one?" 

She  held  the  girl 's  small  hands  in  hers,  and  as  she  marked 
off  each  item  of  her  program,  she  gently  clapped  the  hands 
together,  as  in  approval  or  consent.  It  was  a  character- 
istic trick  with  Adelaide  when  she  meant  to  be  playfully 
coaxing,  and  there  was  imprudence  in  employing  it  now. 
But  with  the  first  inchoate  stirring  of  memory  in  Juliette, 
caution  reawakened  in  Madame  de  Bayard.  She  released 
the  hands,  and  said  in  a  graver  tone : 

"Your  gouvernante  will  not  object  to  return?" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Juliette  responded: 

"Dear  Madame,  that  lady  is  not  my  instructress.  She 
is  the  excellent  Madame  Tessier,  my  grandmother's  oldest 
friend." 

Adelaide's  lip  wore  the  expression  of  one  who  sniffs  at 
physic.  Had  she  not  been  deafened  with  the  recounted 
virtues  of  this  very  Madame  Tessier!  As  she  racked  her 
memory  for  the  date  of  a  possible  meeting,  Juliette  con- 
tinued : 

' '  She  is  very  kind  to  me.  But  I  fear  she  will  not  consent 
to  return  to  France  immediately.  She  is  now  upon  her 
way  to  Mons-sur-Trouille  to  attend  the  wedding  of  her  only 
son.  All  has  been  arranged.  It  is  to  take  place  upon  the 
22d." 

A  sigh  heaved  her  breast,  and  her  eyelids  sank  under  the 
burning  gaze  of  Adelaide.  But  Adelaide  was  still  engaged 
with  Madame  Tessier. 

"If  she  has  seen  me  once — and  it  may  well  be  once! — 
she  certainly  has  forgotten  me!"  she  commented  mentally. 
Aloud  she  said : 

''But  you,  Mademoiselle — you  are  free  to  return  to  our 
beloved  country.  Under  my  own  guardianship  if  you  will. 
Do  not  refuse !  .  .  .  Grant  me  the  privilege ! ' ' 

Juliette  panted: 

"Oh,  if  I  might  accept!  .  .  .  But  this  marriage  is  the 
obstacle !  Because  M.  Tessier  could  not  return  to  France 
for  it,  my  father  commanded  that  I  should  go.  All  the 
more  urgently  that  War  had  been  declared  with  Prussia, 
and  the  regiment  had  been  ordered  to  join  the  Imperial 
Army  at  Metz." 

Madame  Adelaide  repeated  scoffingly: 

"This  marriage  .  .  .  this  marriage.  ...  Is  your  pres- 
ence necessary  to  legalize  the  ceremony?" 

Juliette  cried,  opening  wide  her  eyes : 

"Alas!  yes,  Madame! — for  I  am  to  be  the  bride!  .  .  ." 

A  shock  visibly  passed  through  the  nerves  of  the  woman 
who  heard  her.  She  started  in  her  chair  and  grew  livid 
underneath  her  powder  and  rouge.  And  the  dusky  marks 
on  her  fair  skin  started  into  sinister  prominence.  She  was 
suddenly  terrible,  and  haggard  and  old.  .  .  . 

"So,  that  was  de  Bayard's  plot.  ...  To  marry  her!" 
Adelaide  heard  an  inward  voice  saying.  "Why  did  you 
not  foresee  that,  knowing  her  of  age?  Nineteen — though 


442  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

she  looks  like  a  child,  almost.  .  .  .  Her  grandmother  pos- 
sessed that  physique  of  an  infant,  in  combination  with  an 
iron  determination,  and  a  regard  of  truth  that  robbed  Life 
of  every  alleviation,  deprived  conversation  of  grace  and 
versatility — reduced  the  very  language  of  Love  to  the  level 
of  a  notary's  precis.  ..." 

All  this  passed  through  her  brain  in  an  instant.  She 
controlled  herself,  rose,  took  the  girl's  hands  again,  and 
kissed  her  on  the  brow,  saying  with  sorrowful  melodious- 
ness : 

"My  child,  I  comprehend!  But  while  I  rejoice  at  the 
happiness  that  awaits  the  daughter,  I  weep — forgive  me 
that  I  weep! — for  the  father  in  his  prison-cell.  He  is 
handsome,  thy  betrothed — and  brave — and  not  a  soldier? 
In  a  day  like  this  when  our  France  cries  out  for  men?" 

Juliette  clenched  her  little  hands  as  the  languid  irony 
stabbed  her.  She  cried  out,  almost  beside  herself: 

"Oh,  that  is  what  I  feel,  and  for  that  I  cannot  pardon 
him !  Why  is  he  not  a  soldier  ?  One  could  esteem  him  if 
he  were!  But  oh!  Madame, — I  despise  him,  and  that 
makes  it  the  more  terrible.  .  .  .  This  marriage  with  a 
husband  whom  I  have  never  even  seen!" 

"Ah,  ha!  ..."  she  heard  a  strange  voice  scream 
through  peals  of  laughter.  "Ah,  la,  la! — what  a  clumsy 
game  to  play !  .  .  .  Fi  done,  M.  le  Colonel!  ...  So  we 
were  to  be  married  in  the  style  of  the  Old  Commander. 
.  .  .  'Pas  files  a  droitet  ...  To  the  church,  quick  march!' 
Mon  Dieu!  Mon  Dieu!  how  droll!  ..." 

She  dabbed  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief,  and  said, 
controlling^-her  frantic  merriment: 

"Sweet  child,  forgive  me,  I  am  a  little  hysterical.  .  .  . 
The  shock  of  Victor's  wound  .  .  .  my  sympathy  with  your 
cruel  situation.  .  .  .  How  could  M.  le  Colonel  subject  you 
to  a  trial  so  severe?"  Feeling  herself  upon  unsafe  ground, 
she  dried  her  eyes  again  and  amended.  "That,  I  compre- 
hend, is  a  question  between  yourselves.  .  .  .  When  this 
wedding  was  arranged  M.  le  Colonel  had  no  comprehension 
of  what  would  befall  him.  Yet,  for  his  sake,  would  it  not 
be  wise  to  delay?  Engage  the  interest  of  the  Emperor 
before  it  is  too  late  to  reach  the  beloved  captive.  Should 
he  be  interned  in  some  fortress  of  East  Prussia,  how  will 
even  a  daughter's  tenderness  reach  him  amidst  those  deso- 
late plains — in  those  caverns  of  freezing  stone!  ..." 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  443 

She  used  her  fine  voice  like  a  consummate  artist  of  the 
theater.  .  .  .  Juliette  had  a  vision  of  her  father  dying, 
fettered,  ghastly  and  gaunt  with  famine,  as  an  engraving 
of  Count  Ugolino  in  his  dungeon  she  remembered  to  have 
somewhere  seen.  .  .  .  And  her  secret  horror  of  Charles 
Tessier,  wedded  with  the  feverish  longing  to  return  to 
France  and  work  for  the  release  of  her  dear  prisoner, 
prompted  her  to  decision  now.  .  .  . 

"I  will  go  with  you,  since  you  are  good  enough  to  pro- 
pose it.  But  Madame  Tessier  will  never  give  her  consent. 
Therefore,  we  must  leave  here  without  consulting  her,  and 
secretly.  ...  I  will  write  a  letter  explaining  all.  Money 
I  have  for  the  railway  charges,  not  much,  but  I  think 
sufficient ! ' ' 

Said  Adelaide,  barely  able  to  hide  her  triumph : 

"Leave  the  purchase  of  the  tickets  to  me,  ma  mignonne! 
I  have  a  pretty  little  score  to  settle  with  M.  le  Colonel.  "We 
will  settle  our  accounts  presently,  I  promise  you!  What 
is  the  matter  now?" 

Juliette  gasped : 

' '  Alas ! — I  have  no  passport !  At  least,  Madame  Tessier 
has  both  ours.  ..." 

"Ah,  bah!"  said  Adelaide.  "We  will  borrow  Mari- 
ette's.  .  .  .  She  can  remain  here  at  pasture,  and  amuse 
herself  with  the  waiters !  .  .  . "  She  burst  out  laughing  at 
Juliette's  look  of  astonishment,  and  tapped  her  under  the 
chin,  telling  her  to  go  to  her  room,  pack  a  small  hand-bag 
with  necessary  articles,  change  into  a  dark,  plain  walking- 
dress,  and  rejoin  her  as  soon  as  might  be.  She  showed 
a  small  watch,  its  back  thickly  crusted  with  emeralds, 
saying : 

' '  Hurry !  .  .  .  You  have  barely  a  quarter  of  an  hour. ' ' 
'      Then  she  opened  the  door,  sped  her  capture  with  a  beam- 
ing smile,  beckoned  Mariette,   and  this  strange  colloquy 
took  place  between  Circe  and  her  tirewoman: 

"Did  the  old  woman  come  nosing  upstairs  after  the 
little  Mademoiselle  joined  me?" 

Mariette  replied : 

"She  did,  Madame,  but  I  had  locked  both  Mademoiselle's 
doors — that  leading  into  the  old  lady's  room,  and  the  one 
that  opens  on  the  corridor, — and  put  the  keys  in  my  pocket. 
Here  they  are ! ' ' 

She  held  them  up,  her  sallow  features  expressive  with 


444  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  expectation  of  a  reward  earned  by  intelligence.  Said 
Adelaide,  impatiently  tapping  her  handsome  foot: 

"And  then?   .    .    .   And  then?   ..." 

"Then  I  accidentally  encountered  Madame  on  the 
threshold  of  Mademoiselle's  apartment.  Seeing  her  about 
to  knock,  I  told  her  that  I  had  seen  the  young  lady  descend 
the  stairs,  carrying  a  letter,  which  I  supposed  Mademoiselle 
intended  to  post  at  the  pillar  in  the  vestibule.  .  .  .  Hear- 
ing this  the  old  lady  thanked  me,  and  bundled  down- 
stairs. She  is  asthmatic,  judging  by  her  wheezing.  .  .  . 
She  will  wait  a  bit  before  she  climbs  up  all  these  flights 
again." 

Adelaide  thought  a  moment,  and  then  gave  orders. 

"Run  you  down,  hunt  up  the  old  woman — help  her  to 
search  everywhere  for  the  little  thing — you  understand! 
.  .  .  Half  an  hour  will  be  sufficient  to  detain  her  below 
stairs.  In  less  time  Mademoiselle  will  be  safe  with  me  in 
my  apartment.  .  .  .  Then  you  will  give  Madame  these 
keys  and  a  little  note  written  by  Mademoiselle.  .  .  .  Or — 
do  you  know  of  a  waiter  who  would  undertake  to  do  this 
and  hold  his  tongue?" 

Mariette's  expression  became  sentimental.  She  said, 
with  her  head  tilted  on  one  side : 

"There  is  one,  a  Swiss  youth,  handsome  and  with  the 
form  of  an  athlete,  upon  whose  fidelity  and  silence  Madame 
can  implicitly  rely.  ..." 

"For  how  much?"  Adelaide  demanded,  having  no  illu- 
sions as  to  the  permanence  of  an  unpurchased  silence. 

Mariette  answered: 

"I  will  guarantee  Adolphe  Madame 's  for  the  sum  of 
twenty  francs!" 

Adelaide  gave  her  a  bank-note,  and  the  faithful  creature 
tripped  away  to  split  it.  Despite  youth,  beauty  and 
muscles,  her  Adolphe  only  got  ten  francs.  But  he  carried 
out  his  instructions  and  handed  Madame  Tessier  the  keys, 
with  a  little  envelope,  containing  a  hasty  line  in  the  hand- 
writing of  Juliette: 

"Dearest  Madame,"  it  said.  "This  moment  I  have  re- 
ceived grave  news  of  my  father,  compelling  me  to  leave 
your  side.  This  marriage  must  be  deferred.  Entreat  .)/. 
Charles  to  excuse  me!  I  embrace  and  pray  you  to  pardon. 

"J.  M.  DEB." 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  445 

The  little  note  was  penned  on  the  corner  of  Adelaide's 
toilette-table.  While  Madame  read  it  and  fainted, — was 
revived  by  Mariette  and  the  athletic  Adolphe, — scolded 
herself  into  hysterics,  came  out  of  them  and  dispatched 
telegrams;  tore  the  telegrams  up  and  wrote  letters, — Juli- 
ette was  safely  hidden  in  Madame  Adelaide's  room. 

Later  on,  when  Madame  Tessier  had  left  the  hotel,  with 
her  luggage  and  the  trunks  and  bandboxes  of  the  vanished 
bride-elect — this  time  containing  the  marriage  robe,  crown 
and  so  on, — Madame  de  Baye  sent  for  her  bill  and  paid  it — 
ordered  a  fiacre  and  drove  to  the  station,  accompanied  by 
her  maid,  and  her  maid's  sister,  a  demure  little  person  in 
black  merino,  cut  convent-style,  whose  head  was  draped, 
after  the  fashion  of  some  lay  novices,  with  a  black  silk  veil. 

The  abduction  was  effected  in  the  simplest  fashion.  .  .  . 
Not  a  soul  turned  to  look  at  the  dowdy  little  figure  carrying 
the  hand-bag,  its  slight  proportions  half  hidden  in  the 
sweeping  folds  of  Adelaide's  silken  train. 

The  station  was  crowded  with  newly-arrived  French 
officers,  men  of  MacMahon's  defeated  army,  who  wore  their 
swords,  having  given  their  parole  to  their  captors  not  to 
serve  again  in  the  War.  Belgian  officers  fraternized  with 
them, — Belgian  ladies  of  the  Red  Cross  were  busily  en- 
gaged in  making  much  of  those  who  were  wounded.  .  .  . 
Juliette's  heart  swelled  at  the  sight  of  the  bandages  and 
crutches,  and  when  the  laden  stretchers  were  carried  past, 
the  hot  tears  streamed  down  her  white  cheeks  behind  her 
screening  veil. 

The  train  carried  a  great  many  French  passengers,  as 
well  as  an  English  Red  Cross  column  and  a  Belgian  one. 
When  the  engine  shrieked,  Juliette  started  as  guiltily  as 
though  it  had  been  the  voice  of  Madame  Tessier,  shrilly 
lamenting  an  absconding  daughter-in-law. 

They  were  off — launched  upon  the  iron  road  that  led 
back  to  France  and  freedom.  The  excellent  Mariette  re- 
mained behind.  She  would  sleep  at  some  hotel,  procure 
a  passport,  and  join  her  mistress  later.  Madame  de  Baye 
took  the  trouble  to  explain. 

From  the  shrinking  little  figure  in  the  corner  of  the  car- 
riage came  a  muffled  sound  in  answer. 

"Let  her  mope,"  Adelaide  said  to  herself.  "Thought  is 
necessary  to  carry  out  my  plan ! ' ' 


446  THE   MAN   OF   IRON 

You  are  to  see  her  as  Juliette  saw  her,  leaning  her  fair 
round  elbow  on  the  padded  window-ledge,  and  thinking,  as 
the  rolling  plains  in  the  vicinity  of  Brussels  gradually  gave 
place  to  valley  and  hill.  All  of  fierce  and  sensual  and 
treacherous  that  mingled  in  her  complex  nature  with  how 
many  nobler  qualities, — showed  now  in  the  beautiful  mask 
of  Adelaide,  even  as  she  sat  brooding  there. 

She  had  knotty  problems  to  decide,  it  must  be  admitted. 
.  .  .  How  best  to  play  this  marvelous  trump,  her  daughter 
thrown  in  her  way  by  chance,  was  one  of  these.  That  plot 
of  Straz,  for  bringing  the  girl  into  contact  with  the  Heir 
Imperial,  might  be  combined  with  Adelaide's  own  original 
notion  of  employing  the  girl's  influence  to  bring  about  a 
reconciliation  with  M.  de  Bayard. 

The  indifference  of  M.  de  Bismarck  had  quashed  her 
tentative  approaches  on  the  one  subject.  The  silent  con- 
tempt of  de  Bayard  had  thrown  the  other  affair  out  of 
gear.  To  score  off  both  would  be  magnificent.  ...  As 
for  Straz  .  .  .  she  lost  grip  of  herself  when  she  thought  of 
the  Roumanian,  murmuring : 

"For  revenge  on  him,  who  has  robbed  me  of  my  beauty, 
how  cheerfully  I  would  give  my  soul ! ' ' 

Juliette,  from  her  corner,  saw  the  change  and  shuddered. 
Adelaide  turned  sharply,  to  read  terror  in  the  girl's  face. 

"What  is  it,  my  chicken?  Has  anything  frightened 
you?"  .  .  . 

The  terrifying  Medusa  turned  to  a  maternally-smiling 
Cybele.  She  leaned  across  the  intervening  space  of  cushion, 
to  playfully  pat  the  knee  of  her  charge.  But  the  answering 
smile  was  as  faint  as  the  scent  of  frozen  violets.  .  .  .  The 
spell  of  her  beauty  had  been  broken  when  her  demon  had 
looked  out  of  her  eyes. 

' '  My  nerves  are  not  as  strong  as  they  were  before — what 
happened  in  July,"  she  told  herself.  "And  that  is  another 
debt  I  owe  to  Nicolas.  He  would  be  wiser  to  let  me  forget 
him — if  oblivion  be  possible. ' ' 

Her  looking-glass  bore  out  each  day  what  the  Roumanian 
had  said  to  her.  "Never  will  you  ~be  able  to  look  in  your 
mirror  without  remembering  me!" 

And  to  keep  her  smart  alive,  the  Slav  had  adopted  a 
method  of  his  own  invention.  Peculiarly  ingenious  and 
characteristic  of  Straz. 

At  intervals  Adelaide  received  anonymous  letters,  con- 


THE   MAN    OF   IRON  447 

taining  inclosures,  wherever  she  went  and  by  whatever 
alias  she  passed.  Envelopes  directed  in  varying  hands 
would  contain  doll's  mirrors  costing  but  a  sou  or  two. 
Pinchbeck-framed  ovals  or  circles  of  tin  or  glass,  always 
reflecting  the  same  thing. 

A  livid  face  of  hate,  streaked  with  those  faint  brownish 
red  marks  left  by  the  tightened  folds  of  the  silk  scarf  that 
had  so  nearly  strangled  her.  She  had  tried  to  laugh  at  this 
childish  form  assumed  by  the  malice  of  the  Roumanian. 
But  the  deadly  cleverness  of  the  thing  lay  in  the  fact — that 
it  did  what  it  was  meant  to  do.  The  medieval  torture  of 
the  falling  drops  of  water  was  equaled  by  this  Ordeal  of 
the  Penny  Looking-Glass. 

"Look,  see,  and  think  of  me!"  sometimes  ran  the  dog- 
gerel rhyme  scrawled  on  the  paper  wrapping  of  the  doll's 
mirror.  At  other  times: 

"Charms  that  are  spoiled  hold  no  men  entoiled!"  would 
be  the  motto,  or  something  equally  stupid,  dull  and  banal. 
The  stupidity  was  becoming  unbearable  by  its  very  repeti- 
tion ;  by  the  certainty  and  regularity  with  which  the  laden 
envelopes  arrived.  Sometimes  Adelaide  felt  entangled  in  a 
cunningly  woven  network  .  .  .  surrounded  by  spies,  sleep- 
less and  unseen.  .  .  .  Yet  in  the  maid  Mariette  the  Slav 
had  found  an  accomplice  clever  enough  to  carry  out  his 
purposes  single-handed.  The  cream  of  the  thing  was — 
Adelaide  never  suspected  Mariette. 

Treacherous  herself,  she  believed  in  the  devotion  of  this 
woman,  who  watched  her  anguish  grimly,  planting  fresh 
thorns  in  her  mistress's  shuddering  flesh.  And  every  day 
or  so  brought  another  doll's  looking-glass.  The  jeer  that 
accompanied  the  last  had  been  a  vilely  parodied  verse  of 
the  child's  dancing-song: 

"Ma  commere  etait  belle! 
Helas!    dans  le  temps! 
Ma  commere  etait  belle! 
Helas!   dans  le  temps!   Helas! 
Pousser  un  soupir! 
A  vue  de  ma  commere: 
L' Amour  n'a  qu'a  mourir! 
Helas!" 

One  may  imagine  the  curl  of  Adelaide's  lip  on  reading 
rubbish  like  this.  But  she  read  it  more  than  once,  and 
when  she  finally  burned  it,  the  accursed  jingle,  burr-like, 


>48  THE   MAN    OF    IRON 

stuck  in  her  memory:  for  she  it  was  who  had  been  beauti- 
ful in  the  time  that  had  passed  for  evermore — the  gossip 
at  the  first  sight  of  whose  damaged,  unveiled  charms  Love 
sighed  and  gave  up  the  ghost. 


LII 

MEANWHILE  Juliette,  nestled  in  her  corner,  stared  from  the 
window  as  Belgium  hurried  by.  Bouillon,  at  whose  station 
they  left  the  train,  showed  a  platform  crowded  with  swag- 
gering Prussian  officers  of  the  Crown  Prince 's  army — some 
of  them  wounded,  all  upon  parole.  French  ladies,  entering 
and  leaving  the  carriages,  looked  daggers  at  their  enemies. 
Poisoned  daggers  at  Adelaide,  who,  to  her  secret  annoyance, 
was  recognized  and  familiarly  greeted  by  two  of  these 
Teutonic  warriors,  one  a  tall  and  red-whiskered  Bavarian 
Light  Dragoon,  the  other  a  brown-coated  Hussar  of  von 
Barnekow's  Brigade. 

In  vain  Adelaide  ignored  the  pair  and  redoubled  the 
directions  she  was  giving  to  a  porter.  The  Bavarian  coolly 
thrust  the  man  aside,  opened  the  carriage-door  and  jumped 
upon  the  steps. 

"Meine  gnddigste  .  .  .  loveliest  Countess,  you  won't  give 
the  go-by  to  your  old  comrade  Otto?  Here  also  is  von 
Wissman,  who  claims  a  greeting  from  you!" 

There  was  no  gainsaying  the  boisterous  good-fellowship 
of  the  officers.  They  superintended  the  removal  of  the  lug- 
gage from  the  van,  engaged  a  pair-horsed  fiacre,  and  ad- 
vised as  to  its  loading.  When  Adelaide  and  her  charge 
entered  they  followed  uninvited,  and  deposited  themselves 
on  the  front  seat,  incommoding  the  ladies  with  their  long 
spurred  boots  and  filling  the  vehicle  with  the  odor  of 
cigars  and  wine.  Both  talked  much ;  the  Hussar  chattered 
incessantly;  giving  details  of  the  various  actions  he  had 
been  engaged  in,  the  chance  by  which  he  had  been  taken 
prisoner,  the  irksomeness  of  being  interned  in  Belgium 
until  the  ending  of  hostilities: 

"Not  that  it  will  be  long  before  the  War  is  over.  We 
now  hold  Alsace  Lorraine  and  the  country  north  and  east 
of  Metz.  The  Crown  Prince  is  making  for  Chalons;  that 
will  give  the  French  Emperor  an  attack  of  hysterics.  He 
has  handed  over  the  supreme  command  to  Bazaine,  and 


THE   MAK    OF:   IRON  449 

yesterday  left  Gravelotte  for  Verdun.  That  means  Chal- 
ons, and  after  Chalons  will  be  Paris.  Badinguet  has  had 
enough  of  campaigning  to  last  him  the  rest  of  his  reign." 

Adelaide  asked: 

"And  the  Prince?" 

The  brown  Hussar  puffed  out  his  cheeks  and  squinted 
like  a  pantomime-mask.  The  Bavarian  replied: 

"Lulu  went  with  papa,  though  we  heard  they  had  trou- 
ble to  make  him.  He  wanted  to  stop  and  kill  Prussians — 
they're  such  horrible  beasts,  you  know!" 

"You  droll  beggar,  Strelitz,  shut  up  with  your  mum- 
mery," said  the  Hussar,  leaning  across  him  to  pitch  his 
cigar-butt  away. 

"Madame  is  fire-proof,  why  waste  the  stump  of  a  three- 
mark  Havana?"  chuckled  Strelitz,  keeping  his  own  weed 
alight.  He  went  on,  drolling  for  the  benefit  of  his  com- 
panion : 

' '  This  meeting,  loveliest  Countess,  makes  me  feel  a  youth 
again — garlanding  the  grim  temples  of  Bellona  with  the 
roses  of  the  goddess  of  Love.  You  remember  the  classical 
lessons  you  used  to  give  me  only  last  winter,  in  your  charm- 
ing flat  near  the  Linden  Strasse  ? ' ' 

He  ogled  Adelaide  with  comic  sentimentality : 

"And  the  jovial  supper-party  at  which  I  was  present, 
when  von  Kessel,  of  the  Guards  Infantry,  had  the  presump- 
tion to  bring  an  uninvited  guest!" 

' '  Why  apologize  ! ' '  laughed  the  Hussar.  ' '  The  pleasant- 
est  acquaintanceships  are  made  by  chance ! ' ' 

' '  Ah,  but  this  was  not  chance ! ' '  said  the  Bavarian,  with 
mock  solemnity.  ' '  It  was  one  of  those  accidents  that  only 
happen  by  design.  Von  Schon-Valverden  bored  von  Kessel 
frightfully  to  take  him — left  the  fat  fellow  no  peace  until 
he  gave  in.  The  Count  is  reported  to  have  paid  the  pen- 
alty." 

' '  Aha !  I  can  imagine  what  happened  to  the  youngster ! ' ' 
giggled  the  Hussar. 

Replied  the  comedian : 

"He  had  three  losses  that  evening.  Each  one  more 
serious  than  the  last!" 

Adelaide  shrugged,  but  she  did  not  look  angry;  indeed, 
through  her  veil  her  disdainful  beauty  assumed  a  smiling 
cast. 

"Three  losses,"  the  comedian  repeated,  "exactly  as  in 


450  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

my  own  case.  For  he  first  lost  his  money — so  did  I ! — we 
were  playing  baccarat  that  evening — then  he  lost  his  head, 
and  finally  his  heart ! ' ' 

"Otto,  thou  wert  always  a  tease!"  protested  Madame, 
but  her  ill-hurnor  had  softened  into  conscious  coquetry, 
and  her  eyes  beamed  radiantly  through  the  flowers  of  her 
masking  veil. 

"Or  he  would  have!"  continued  Otto:  "had  not  his 
mother,  the  Countess,  come  flying  to  the  rescue  and  carried 
him  off,  nobody  knows  where !  .  .  . " 

Adelaide's  eyes  blazed.  She  said  in  a  tone  of  haughty 
nonchalance : 

"Count  Valverden  is  now  with  the  first  Army,  advanc- 
ing toward  Metz.  .  .  .  He  says  he  hopes  to  win  the  silver 
sword-knot  before  the  close  of  the  campaign." 

"You  correspond?"  the  Hussar  asked,  grinning,  as  the 
driver  signified  impatience  by  kicking  the  back  of  the  box- 
seat.  Both  officers  got  out  of  the  carriage  as  Adelaide 
answered  coldly: 

"He  often  writes  to  me." 

The  driver,  ignored,  opened  a  little  padded  trap-hole  in 
the  front  part  of  the  vehicle.  He  clapped  his  mouth  to  it 
and  shouted  in  the  Flemish  tongue : 

"Geef  my  U  address!" 

Adelaide  gave  the  name  of  the  Hotel  des  Postes.  The 
officers  kissed  her  hand  and  said  they  would  call  there  on 
the  morrow.  They  waved  as  the  fiacre  rumbled  out  of  the 
station.  Adelaide  waved  back,  and  issued  quite  another 
direction  through  the  driver's  trap-hole.  And  the  fiacre 
went  jingling  through  the  old-world  streets  of  the  castled 
town  that  sits  on  the  broad  flowing  river  whose  bridge  was 
crowded  with  French  and  Belgian  officers,  chatting,  smok- 
ing and  discussing  the  news  of  the  War. 

Presently  they  were  free  of  the  streets,  roaring  with  the 
tongues  of  many  nations,  choked  with  trains  of  French 
wounded,  Red  Cross  columns,  Sisters,  surgeons,  bearers, 
carriages  full  of  visitors,  and  more  processions  of  officers 
on  parole.  The  fiacre  lumbered  at  a  good  pace  behind  its 
pair  of  heavy-hocked  Flemish  horses  along  a  wide,  straight 
road,  with  plains  on  either  side.  And  presently  tall  black 
wooden  observation-towers  marked  the  frontier  where  Bel- 
gian videttes  and  outposts  amicably  fraternized  with 
French. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  451 

Kilometer  posts  of  wood  instead  of  stone.  .  .  .  The  dear 
French  language  in  the  mouths  of  people.  Breasting  hills 
covered  with  woods,  instead  of  fallow  plains,  intersected 
with  level  roads  bordered  with  eternal  poplar-trees. 

With  the  joy  and  relief  of  the  return,  Juliette's  heavy 
heart  grew  lighter.  Her  muscles  relaxed.  She  could  un- 
clench her  hands  again.  For  the  horror  she  had  felt  at  the 
contiguity  of  the  German  officers  and  the  loathing  their 
familiar  address  had  inspired  in  her  had  been  well-nigh 
unbearable,  though  she  understood  their  language  but 
imperfectly.  And  this  strange  woman,  her  self-chosen 
protectress,  who  greedily  fed  on  an  admiration  so  coarse, 
Who  was  she?  What  was  she?  The  poor  girl  shuddered 
as  she  wondered.  Of  women  like  Adelaide  she  had  no 
experience,  and  yet  she  could  not  silence  the  voice  of  her 
doubt. 

When  Madame  good-humoredly  bade  her  unlock  travel- 
ing bags,  unstrap  baskets  and  serve  both  with  the  food 
and  drink  she  had  lavishly  provided,  Juliette,  declining  all 
offers  of  refreshment,  waited  upon  her,  in  silence  so  frozen 
that  the  patience  of  her  protectress  was  severely  taxed. 

Unaided,  Madame  emptied  a  pint  bottle  of  champagne, 
a  fluid  which  temporarily  elevates  the  spirits,  and  con- 
sumed the  greater  part  of  a  cold  pate,  with  pastry  and 
fruit,  winding  up  the  repast  with  a  Turkish  cigarette  and 
a  thimbleful  of  cognac  from  the  silver  flask  in  her  traveling- 
bag. 

' '  How  dull  you  are — how  cold,  you  tiny  creature ! ' '  she 
grumbled.  "Is  it  blood  that  runs  in  your  veins,  or  melted 
snow?  From  whom  do  you  inherit  this  torpid  nature — 
without  vivacity,  warmth,  or  gaiety?  Your  father  was 
not  lacking  in  fire  and  passion.  .  .  .  Your  mother — 
Her  long  eyes  laughed  wickedly.  "A  feminine  volcano, 
shall  we  say?" 

A  shock  went  through  the  girl.  She  visibly  quailed  and 
shuddered.  Through  the  rumbling  of  the  fiacre,  she  heard 
herself  speaking  in  a  voice  she  hardly  recognized : 

"My  mother.  .  .  .  Did  you  know  my  mother?  And — 
knowing  her — dare  you  speak  of  her  to  me?  .  .  ." 

Dare !  .  .  . "  Adelaide  threw  back  her  handsome  head 
in  a  gale  of  laughter,  curling  back  her  crimson  lips,  lavishly 
displaying  her  splendid  teeth.  "I  dare  do  many  things," 
she  said,  still  laughing.  "Conventionality  .  .  .  timidity 


452  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

.  .  .  these  are  not  characteristics  distinctive  of  me!  Nor 
were  they  ever,  to  do  myself  justice.  .  .  .  Why  are  we 
stopping  at  this  miserable  place  ? ' ' 

Juliette,  rendered  dumb  by  growing  fear  of  her  com- 
panion, did  not  answer.  The  carriage  drew  up  at  a  cross- 
roads where  a  bridge  arched  the  Givonne.  They  were  upon 
the  fringes  of  the  village,  near  a  country  inn  and  posting- 
house.  The  driver  had  an  ancient  understanding  with  the 
proprietor  of  this  hostelry  that  his  beasts  should  break 
down  here. 

He  now  got  down  from  his  perch.  Adelaide  lowered  the 
window.  The  man  explained  by  the  aid  of  signs  that  the 
horses  were  quite  exhausted  and  they  were  yet  three  miles 
from  Sedan.  The  proprietor  of  the  inn  assisted  at  the 
colloquy,  extending  the  distance  by  another  mile — hinting 
at  possible  dangers  after  nightfall.  He  could  supply  an 
excellent  supper,  a  comfortable  double  bedroom — coffee  at 
the  peep  of  day,  a  vehicle  and  horses  to  take  Madame  and 
Mademoiselle  to  Sedan,  or  wherever  they  chose.  .  .  . 

Finally  the  driver  was  paid  enough  to  satisfy  even  his 
cupidity.  Madame 's  luggage  was  taken  upstairs,  the  ladies 
mounted  to  their  room. 

It  was  a  low-ceiled,  dampish  apartment  containing  two 
bedsteads  of  uncomfortable  aspect,  with  flock  beds  and 
dusty  chintz  draperies.  Candles  were  lighted,  put  on  the 
chimney-piece.  ...  A  fire  of  damp  billets  was  set  smoking 
6y  the  efforts  of  the  chambermaid,  who  was  not  disinclined 
to  talk.  French  troops  were  encamped  near.  Let  the  ladies 
look  from  the  window.  Those  lines  of  red  and  yellow  lights 
glaring  through  a  rising  fog  marked  the  sites  of  the  sol- 
diers' watch-fires.  There  were  officers  down  below  drinking 
wine  and  playing  cards  in  the  salle  a  manger.  Also  sol- 
diers were  drinking  cider  in  the  yard.  It  made  one  feel 
more  safe,  the  presence  of  so  many  warriors.  Indeed, 
Sedan  was  full  of  them,  and  all  the  country  round  about. 
.  .  .  At  Metz  also,  even  more,  with  guns  enough  to  kill 
all  the  Prussians  in  existence.  The  chambermaid  felt  con- 
fident that  they  would  soon  be  driven  out  of  France. 

Still  talking,  she  supplied  hot  water,  and  laid  a  little 
supper- table,  the  ladies  preferring  not  to  descend.  A 
smoked  omelette  with  herbs,  some  stewed  pears,  and  a 
seed-cake  furnished  the  supper,  with  a  decanter  of  thin  red 
wine. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  453 

Adelaide  nibbled  and  sipped  discontentedly.  Juliette, 
being  famished,  made  a  meal.  The  billets  refusing  warmth 
Madame  unrobed  her  sumptuous  person,  arrayed  herself  in 
lace  and  lawn,  enlisting  the  services  of  her  charge  as  lady's 
maid,  and  gracefully  betook  herself  to  bed.  There  she 
leaned  on  her  white  elbow,  chatting  while  Juliette  made 
her  own  preparations  for  the  down-lying.  .  .  .  Her  tigerish 
mood  was  past.  She  was  amiable — almost  affectionate. 
.  .  .  She  even  praised  the  girlish  charms  reluctantly  un- 
veiled in  the  process  of  undressing ;  remarking : 

"After  all,  you  only  want  style  and  more  tournure  to  do 
execution  among  the  men.  Some  of  them  actually  prefer 
coldness.  They  say  it  gives  the  illusion  of  innocence.  Have 
you  locked  the  door?  Yes!  Then  double-lock  and  drag 
a  trunk  before  it,  and  shut  the  window  and  slide  the  bolt. 
.  .  .  Pull  down  the  blind  and  draw  the  curtain.  .  .  .  One 
cannot  b^  too  careful  in  places  like  these!  ..." 

"But  we  shall  be  suffocated!"  Juliette  cried  in  con- 
sternation, forgetting  her  deadly  fear  of  Adelaide  in  her 
craving  for  fresh  air.  And  then  in  the  ghastly  face  the 
other  turned  upon  her,  she  saw  the  unmistakable  stamp  of 
Fear. 

"What  have  I  said?  .  .  .  What  has  frightened  you? 
Are  you  ill?  Pray  tell  me!"  she  begged. 

But  Adelaide  waved  her  off,  biting  her  pale  lips  to  bring 
the  blood  back  to  them,  saying  harshly:  "It  is  nothing! 
A  spasm.  I  have  suffered  from  them  of  late.  ...  Do  not 
stare  at  me  as  though  I  were  hideous.  Give  me  my  reticule. 
.  .  .  There!  on  the  toilette-table.  How  clumsy  you  tiny 
things  can  be !  .  .  . " 

Trembling,  Juliette  handed  her  the  gold-mounted  bauble. 
She  took  a  little  phial  from  it  and  a  measuring-glass. 

"Now  place  one  of  those  candles  on  the  night-stand, 
beside  me.  One  will  not  do — give  me  both !  .  .  . " 

There  was  laudanum  in  the  little  crystal  phial.  When 
Adelaide  had  measured  and  swallowed  her  dose  she 
breathed  more  easily,  stared  less  fixedly,  and  those  disfigur- 
ing reddish-purple  streaks  of  Straz's  handiwork  showed 
less  vividly  against  the  creamy  skin.  Her  suffused  eyes 
regained  clearness.  She  lay  back  among  her  pillows  and 
declared  herself  better  .  .  .  laughed  at  the  terror  still  vis- 
ible in  Juliette's  face.  .  .  . 

"Now  give  me  the  little  pistol  and  the  pearl-handled 


454  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

dagger  out  of  the  inner  compartment  in  my  traveling-bag. 
...  The  large,  deep  pocket  that  fastens  with'  a  snap. 
What!  you  would  rather  not!  .  .  .  You  do  not  like  to 
handle  them.  .  .  .  Fi  done,  Mademoiselle!  A  soldier's 
daughter — and  guilty  of  such  cowardice !  .  .  . " 

Juliette  winced  at  the  thrust.  It  was  her  turn  to  bite 
her  lips.  She  steadied  them  and  mastered  her  voice  suf- 
ficiently to  say : 

"I  dislike  to  touch  such  weapons,  because  I  have  never 
learned  to  use  them.  And  I  will  ask  you,  Madame,  not  to 
speak  jestingly  of  my  father  to  me!" 

"Give  me  the  pistol  and  stiletto,  then!"  stipulated  her 
tormentress. 

„  In  silence  Juliette  took  one  of  the  candles,  and  set  it  near 
the  traveling-bag  upon  the  table  near  the  supper-tray 
which  the  chambermaid  had  neglected  to  remove.  She 
dived  into  the  deep  pocket  as  directed,  and  drew  out  a 
double-barreled  pistol,  mounted  in  ebony  and  silver,  and 
the  dagger,  a  costly  toy  of  Indian  workmanship.  Some- 
thing else  fell  upon  the  floor  with  a  faint  tinkle.  It  was  a 
miniature  set  with  pearls,  that  had  rolled  under  the  table. 
She  laid  the  pistol  and  dagger  there,  took  the  candlestick 
and  stooped  to  pick  the  miniature  up.  The  portrait  within 
the  oval  of  pearls  and  gold  was  that  of  a  girl-child  of  some 
five  years.  In  the  pictured  face  that  smiled  up  at  her 
with  eyes  as  deeply  blue  as  the  spring  skies  of  Italy, 
Juliette  with  a  thrill  and  shock  indescribable,  recognized 
herself.  .  .  . 

"It  was  the  August  of  1856.  Thou  hadst  five  years,  and 
thy  curls  were  as  soft  and  yellow  as  chicken~down.  .  .  . 
Thy  mother  used  to  say:  'Juliette  wiU  never  be  black 
like  me!'  ' 

The  beloved  voice  was  in  her  ears,  with  the  very  throb  of 
his  aching  heart  in  it.  De  Bayard 's  daughter  knelt  so  long 
upon  the  floor,  motionless,  staring  at  the  horror,  that 
Adelaide  accused  her  jestingly  of  having  fallen  asleep. 

"Get  up!  Wake!  Give  me  my  pistol  and  the  dagger. 
I  call  them  my  babies — they  sleep  under  my  pillow  ever 
since — never  mind!  .  .  .  Ah!  You  have  blown  out  the 
candle.  .  .  .  Light  it  at  this  one! — or  perhaps  you  will 
have  light  enough  without  it?  ...  Ugh!  how  cold  your 
hand  is,  you  chilly  little  frog!" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  455 

Juliette  had  blown  out  the  candle  so  that  she  might 
unseen  return  the  portrait  to  the  dressing-bag.  Had 
Straz's  Sultana  not  been  heavy  with  laudanum,  she  would 
have  perceived  this. 

Now  she  yawned,  stretched,  smiled,  declared  herself 
actually  sleepy,  in  spite  of  a  mattress  apparently  stuffed 
with  potatoes  and  stones.  .  .  . 

Juliette  was  kneeling  by  the  other  bedside,  a  slender, 
rigid  little  figure  in  a  white  night-robe,  striving  to  collect 
her  whirling  thoughts  sufficiently  to  say  her  prayers.  When 
she  rose  up,  Adelaide  asked  her  drowsily: 

"Do  you  pray  always?  .  .  .  And  what  do  you  pray  for  ? 
And  for  whom,  tell  me,  you  secret  little  thing!"  ,, 

The  low  answer  came: 

"I  pray  for  the  living,  Madame,  and  for  the  departed. 
.  .  .  For  my  father  and — others  who  are  dear  to  me;  for 
myself  and  for  my  grandmother's  soul!" 

"For  your  mother?"  Adelaide  queried  curiously. 

' '  I  pray  that  my  mother  may  repent  and  be  forgiven ! ' ' 

"Ah-h!"  Adelaide's  inflection  was  sleepily  scornful. 
' '  So  you  think  her  a  terrible  sinner,  eh,  Mademoiselle  ? ' ' 

The  white-robed  figure  palpably  shuddered,  yet  the  an- 
swer came  unfalteringly: 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  judge — you,  Madame!" 

The  clean  riposte  pierced  the  consciousness  that  had 
been  dulled  by  the  opiate.  There  was  a  dreadful  silence, 
during  which  the  girl  could  hear  her  own  heart  drumming, 
and  through  the  noise  it  made,  the  hiss  of  her  mother's 
sharply  intaken  and  expelled  breath.  Then  Adelaide 
shrugged,  saying  in  a  tone  of  drowsy  irony : 

"That  is  the  most  sensible  utterance  I  have  yet  heard 
from  you,  ma  mignonne.  Well — the  discovery  was  inevit- 
able! Now,  with  your  leave,  I  am  going  to  sleep!  ..." 

And  she  did,  while  the  girl  sat  huddled  among  her  scanty 
bedclothes,  clasping  her  knees  and  praying  for  day.  Torn 
between  unconquerable  aversion  toward  this  bold,  auda- 
cious, worldly  woman,  and  the  old  yearning  toward  the 
beautiful  lost  mother,  enshrined  as  a  demi-goddess  in  a 
young  child's  recollection,  you  may  imagine  Juliette's 
mental  and  physical  plight. 

That  one  should  shudder  at  the  touch  of  her  who  stood* 
in  so  sacred  a  relation  was  inconceivable.  .  .  .  That  one 
should  welcome  it  was  inconceivable  also.  .  Dim  con- 


!456  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

jectures  as  fo  her  mother's  past,  as  to  her  present  mode  of 
life,  were  evolved  from  the  depths  of  the  daughter's  Con- 
vent-bred ignorance.  .  .  .  Would  those  German  officers 
have  looked  so  boldly,  conversed  so  coarsely  and  familiarly, 
if  they  had  not  had  reason  to  believe  such  approaches 
welcome,  even  agreeable?  .  .  .  The  lives  of  Phryne, 
Thai's  and  Aspasia  were  missing  from  the  pages  of 
Juliette's  School  Dictionary  of  Classical  Biography.  Yet 
when  Cora  Pearl  had  flashed  past  her  in  the  Bois,  or  upon 
the  Champs  Elysees,  driving  four  mouse-colored  ponies  in 
silver  harness — wielding  a  jeweled  parasol  driving-whip — 
she  had  instinctively  averted  her  gaze  from  the  face  of  the 
courtesan. 

Was  Juliette 's  mother  a  woman  like  that  woman  ?  And 
why,  within  a  few  hours  from  their  chance,  accidental 
meeting,  had  she  inveigled  her  daughter  into  a  snare  ?  .  .  . 
For  that  some  sinister  purpose  had  prompted  the  proceed- 
ing began  to  be  clear  to  the  poor  young  girl. 

Love.  .  .  .  Oh,  Heaven !  was  the  look  in  those  hard  eyes 
born  of  the  divine  tenderness  that  a  mother  feels  for  her 
child  ?  Was  it  not  hatred  that  glittered  from  them  ?  Was 
it  not  revenge  that  had  concocted  the  plot? 

The  marriage  with  M.  Charles  Tessier,  so  keenly  desired 
by  the  Colonel,  had  been  quashed  by  his  wife's  kite-like 
swoop  upon  the  bride.  Was  that  story  of  de  Bayard's 
having  been  made  prisoner  by  Prussians  true  or  invented  ? 
If  false,  whither  were  they  now  bound  ?  .  .  .  "  Oh,  help, 
Mother  of  Mercy,  Mary  most  pitiful!  Pray  for  me  that 
light  may  be  given  me! — teach  me  what  I  ought  to 
do!  .  .  ." 

Growing  calmer  the  reflection  occurred  to  Juliette  that 
this  mother  so  strangely  encountered  could  not  be  all  un- 
tender  toward  her  daughter,  or  the  pearl-set  miniature 
would  not  have  been  kept.  .  .  .  This  brought  tears  to 
her  aching  eyes,  and  some  relief  to  her  apprehensions.  She 
determined,  remembering  that  token  of  lingering  kindness, 
that  she  would  yield  duty  and  obedience  to  her  mother  now. 
Until  she  found  her  all  untrustworthy,  she  would  trust 
her.  .  .  .  She  had  invented  freely,  in  setting  her  springes 
— and  yet  not  altogether  lied.  .  .  . 

Sleep  did  not  come  to  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard  that 
night,  or  for  many  nights  after.  She  lay  staring  at  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  457, 

curtains  that  met  across  the  blinded  window,  until  the 
dawn  edged  them  with  a  line  of  glimmering  gray.  As  the 
streak  encroached,  she  rose  noiselessly,  and  silently  as  the 
dawn  itself  approached  her  mother's  bed. 

Adelaide  lay  upon  her  back  with  her  head  thrown  back 
amid  its  wealth  of  rich  black  tresses,  her  arms  tossed  out 
and  upward,  the  hands  clenched,  one  knee  a  little  raised. 
The  unfastened  robe  of  lawn  disclosed  the  creamy  beauty 
of  her  throat  and  the  swelling  contours  of  her  magnificent 
bosom.  The  sight  sent  an  exquisite  pang  to  the  heart  of 
her  sorrowful  child.  Oh,  God !  if  beauty  so  divine  had  been 
but  chaste,  what  pride,  what  happiness  to  call  this  woman 
mother !  To  lay  one 's  head  upon  that  breast  and  weep  all 
griefs  out  there !  .  .  . 

The  sleeper  stirred  beneath  the  wistful  gaze  of  her 
daughter.  Violet  shadows  were  round  her  sealed  eyelids 
and  about  her  nostrils  and  mouth.  She  moaned  a  little 
and  murmured  brokenly: 

"Nicolas  .  .  .  Monseigneur  .  .  .  insult  .  .  .  never  par- 
don! .  .  .  'Only  a  woman  of  fashion  would  ~be  capable  of 
such  infamy.  .  .  .'  Ah,  mon  Dieu!  .  .  ." 

She  cried  out,  and  her  eyes  opened,  staring  about  wildly. 
She  asked  suspiciously  as  they  fell  on  Juliette: 

' '  Have  I  been  talking  ?  .  .  .    What  was  I  saying  ? ' ' 

Juliette  answered  simply  and  literally: 

"That  only  a  woman  of  fashion  would  be  capable  of 
such  infamy." 

LIII 

THEY  broke  their  fast  on  rolls  and  coffee,  dressed  and 
demanded,  with  the  bill,  the  promised  carriage.  This  was 
not  so  quickly  forthcoming  as  the  landlord  of  the  Coup 
d'fipee  had  prophesied.  Indeed,  the  debilitated  convey- 
ance of  the  wagonette  type,  drawn  by  one  promoted  cart- 
horse, could  only  be  had  by  grace  of  the  traveler  by  whom 
it  had  been  previously  engaged.  He  proved,  when  Ade- 
laide swept  her  charge  downstairs,  to  be  a  Monsieur 
Anglais,  traveling  for  pleasure.  A  middle-sized,  clean- 
shaven, inconspicuous,  elderly  man,  in  an  ill-fitting  suit  of 
drab-color.  He  sported  a  sealskin  vest  in  spite  of  the  op- 
pressive heat  of  the  weather,  and  spoke  the  French  of 
the  conversation-manual  with  the  accent  it  inculcates.  His 


458  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

baldish  grizzled  head  was  covered  with  a  straw  hat  bound 
with  a  preposterous  light-blue  -ribbon.  His  luggage  con- 
sisted of  a  brown  calfskin  bag,  a  portable  easel,  sketching- 
block  and  color-box,  and  a  violin-case,  of  which  articles 
he  took  the  most  excessive  care.  Nothing  could  well  be 
more  respectable,  or  appear  more  harmless.  Juliette 
breathed  more  freely  at  the  sight  of  the  elderly  drab- 
clothed  man. 

He  professed  himself  happy  to  accommodate  the  ladies 
with  a  share  in  the  wagonette  as  far  as  Bazeilles,  where  he 
meant  to  take  train  for  Verdun.  Interpreting  for  Ade- 
laide, who  possessed  no  English,  Juliette  learned  that  their 
own  destination  was  not  Metz,  but  Chalons. 

That  drive  to  Bazeilles  in  the  freshness  of  the  morning 
would  have  been  delightful  under  other  circumstances. 
The  night-mists  yet  hung  white  as  milk  over  the  valleys, 
while  the  breasting  rises  crowned  with  woodlands  were 
golden  in  the  sun.  Tents  of  French  brigades  snowed  over 
the  countryside.  Bugles  and  trumpets  sometimes  drowned 
the  rushing  of  the  Givonne,  beside  whose  stream  their  road 
conducted  them.  The  stubbles  were  full  of  grain-devour- 
ing wood-pigeons,  too  heavy  even  to  rise  and  take  wing 
when  peasant-lads  threw  stones.  The  drab  Englishman 
praised  the  view  in  the  set  terms  of  the  manual,  until  dis- 
covering that  Mademoiselle  had  command  of  the  tongue  of 
Albion,  he  reverted  to  that  language  with  evident  relief. 

"For  I  won't  deny  it  comes  easier,  though  I  manage  to 
get  on  with  the  other  when  necessary.  And  since  I  left 
England — seven  months  ago — my  poor  health  requiring  a 
holiday  from  business — it  has  been  necessary  most  of  the 
time." 

"Ask  the  hideous  animal  in  the  ugly  clothes  whether  he 
has  seen  a  newspaper  this  morning,"  instructed  Madame. 
"And  find  out  if  he  knows  anything  of  the  movements  of 
the  Emperor.  Those  miserables  at  the  inn  were  absolutely 
ignorant,  or  else  they  would  not  tell!" 

The  drab  English  traveler  had  reason  to  know  something 
of  his  Imperial  Majesty,  having  recently  encountered  him 
with  his  suite  at  the  village  of  Gravelotte,  eight  miles  from 
Metz.  He  explained  in  a  rambling  manner,  and  with  many 
divagations,  that  he  himself  had  been  surprised  by  the 
intrusion  of  War  at  the  outset  of  a  sketching-tour  in  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  459 

northwest  of  France,  which,  was  to  have  realized  the  ambi- 
tion of  his  life. 

"Painting  from  Nature  and  playing  on  the  violin.  .  .  . 
Those  are  what  I  may  call  my  weaknesses,"  he  told  the 
ladies  by-and-by. 

He  was  moist-eyed  and  red-nosed  and  shaky-handed, 
which  must  have  interfered  with  his  brush-work  and  bow- 
ing. An  odor  of  strong  waters  exhaled  from  his  person 
and  clothes.  You,  had  you  been  there,  could  have  imag- 
ined him  making  an  inventory,  serving  a  summons,  or, 
mounted  on  a  Holborn  auctioneer's  rostrum — knocking 
down  second-hand  works  of  inferior  Art  to  imaginary  bid- 
ders, and  vaunting  the  qualities  of  sticky-toned  violins. 
Save  for  his  garrulity,  he  was  inoffensive ;  though  his  open 
conviction  that  his  fellow-travelers  were  mother  and  daugh- 
ter caused  Juliette  infinite  anguish  and  disquiet  of  mind. 

''With  regard  to  His  Majesty  the  French  Emperor,  I 
was  brought  into  contact  with  him  unexpectedly, ' '  said  the 
drab  man.  "You  can  picture  me,  young  lady,  in  the  en- 
joyment of  my  well-earned  holiday,  strolling,  as  one  may 
say,  from  village  to  village,  enjoying  the  fresh  air  and  the 
scenery,  such  a  change  after  five-and-twenty  years  of 
Camberwell,  the  Courts  of  Law,  and  Furnival  's  Inn. ' ' 

Adelaide  complained: 

' '  He  bores  me  horribly,  this  red-nosed  imbecile !  Cannot 
he  answer  the  question  ?  What  is  he  saying  now  ? ' ' 

The  drab  man  prattled  on: 

"For  from  the  cradle,  as  one  might  say,  I  have  been  the 
vassal  and  slave  of  Business,  having  been  sent  by  my  father 
to  a  Mercantile  and  Legal  Training  College  at  Bromersham 
when  only  seven  years  old.  At  fifteen  I  was  office-boy  and 
under-clerk  in  the  old  gentleman's  office.  Believed  in  be- 
ginning at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder,  you  see !  At  eighteen, 
articled — again  to  the  old  gentleman!  He  being  a  solici- 
tor and  attorney  with  a  good  old-fashioned  family  practice, 
and  naturally  being  desirous  to  see  his  son  a  full-blown 
partner  in  the  Firm!  ..." 

He  sighed  and  shook  his  head  sentimentally. 

"No  use  to  tell  the  old  gentleman  I  had  been  born  with 
other  ambitions.  That  Art  had  a  fascination,  and  the  voice 
of  Music  called.  ...  I  used  up  reams  of  office  wove-note 
in  making  pen-and-ink  designs  for  illustrations  to  the  books 


460  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

I'd  read  on  the  sly,  and  the  plays  I'd  seen  on  the  quiet. 
.  .  .  I  'd  render  popular  airs  on  the  mouth-organ  to  the  ad- 
miration of  all  the  other  clerks.  'Now,  Mr.  William,  let's 
have  a  Musical  Selection!'  they'd  say  whenever  the  old 
gentleman  popped  out.  ...  I  saved  up  my  money  to  pay 
for  a  course  of  tuition  in  Drawing  from  the  Round  and 
Life  Model  at  a  Night  School  of  Art  in  Soho.  But  I  never 
got  time.  The  old  gentleman  must  have  been  more  know- 
ing than  I  suspected,  for  he  always  managed  to  keep  my 
nose  to  the  grindstone.  Will  you  believe  that  I  bought 
this  box,  and  this  easel,  and  the  violin  twenty  years  ago — 
and  never  got  a  chance  to  use  'em,  until  now?  To  such  a 
degree  was  my  liberty  hectored  over,  and  the  talents  that 
might  have  made  me  the  center  of  a  circle  of  admirers, 
blighted  by  the  Senior  Partner  and  Head  of  the  Firm.  ..." 

Adelaide,  growing  more  restive,  interrupted : 

"Does  this  fatuous  person  who  talks  so  greatly  afford 
any  information,  or  does  he  not?" 

" — Yet  I  could  show  you  a  sketch  of  the  Roman  Aque- 
duct at  Ars  that  would  surprise  you,"  went  on  the  drab 
man,  addressing  Juliette,  "regarded  as  emanating  from 
the  pencil  of  a  simple  amatoor.  Also  I  could  touch  off  a 
French  chansong  on  the  violin  in  a  style  equally  creditable 
and  gratifying — and  justifying  my  retirement  from  Busi- 
ness in  the  interests  of  Music  and  Art.  But 

He  took  out  a  plaid  silk  handkerchief  and  wiped  his 
moist  eyes  with  it,  and  wagged  the  grizzled  head  that  wore 
the  absurd  blue-ribboned  straw  hat  in  a  maudlin,  despon- 
dent way. 

"But  just  as  I'd  settled  to  the  roving  life,  tramping 
from  inn  to  inn  and  finding  'em  comfortable,  the  country 
cooking  tasty,  and  the  country  vintages  nice — War  breaks 
out  and  spoils  everything!  Another  week,  and  I  should 
have  bought  a  Bit  of  Ground ! ' ' 

He  mopped  his  eyes  and  snuffled  a  little,  and  put  away 
the  handkerchief. 

"It  was  going  cheap — the  Chatto  and  farm  and  wine- 
plant  and  vineyards.  I  had  a  good  look  at  the  title-deeds 
— everything  was  in  order  there,  even  to  a  professional  eye. 
.  .  .  All  I  had  to  do  was  to  put  down  the  money.  I  'd  have 
painted  and  fiddled,  made  wine  and  drunk  it — sold  what  I 
didn't  drink,  and  branded  the  vintages:  'Chateau  Musty, 
Dry,  Sparkling  .  .  .  Chateau  Musty,  Special  Still.'  .  .  . 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  461 

Chateau  Musty,  sweet,  preferred  by  ladies.  .  .  .  Stop, 
though!  It  wouldn't  have  been  that  name!  My  name  is 
Fumival!  Excuse  me,  Mam'selle,  but  I  think  your  lady- 
mother  is  making  some  remark  to  you.  At  least  she  im- 
presses me  with  that  idea." 

' '  Madame  is  greatly  desirous  of  intelligence  with  respect 
to  the  Emperor,"  Juliette  explained.  The  talkative 
traveler  looked  aggrieved: 

"Pray  tell  the  lady  I  am  coming  to  him  presently. 
After  the  War  broke  out — Lord!  what  a  hurrying  and 
scurrying  of  soldiers.  .  .  .  Bugles  blowing  your  head  off 
at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning — all  the  wagons  taken  to 
carry  baggage — all  the  farm-horses  whipped  off  to  drag 
cannon  ...  no  more  sensible  business  done  anywhere! 
.  .  .  And  when  the  shooting  began,  it  was  a  scandal! 
Positively  perilous  to  visitors!  Why,  I've  been  absolutely 
in  danger  of  my  life !  .  .  . " 

Adelaide's  foot  tapped  impatiently  on  the  floor  of  the 
wagonette.  Her  fine  eyes  shot  forth  indignant  sparks. 
She  bit  her  crimson  lips.  The  drab  Englishman  regarded 
her  mildly,  commenting: 

"If  I  wasn't  accustomed  by  this  time  to  French  ways 
and  manners,  I  should  take  it  that  your  mamma  had  a 
temper  of  her  own.  But  it's  the  national  method  of  over- 
working the  features.  .  .  .  Not  that  your  Emperor  is 
given  to  too  much  expression.  Heavy,  he  struck  me  as, 
and  puffily  low-spirited!  And  even  a  worse  sleeper  than 
myself,  if  you  ask  me!  For  I  spent  the  night  in  a  room 
over  His  Majesty's,  the  night  he  stopped  in  the  inn  at 
Gravelotte,  and  didn't  shut  my  eyes  for  an  instant  with 
his  groanings  and  his  moanings  and  his  trampings  to  and 
fro.  .  .  ." 

He  wagged  his  head,  and  pursued  with  solemnity: 

"In  the  morning  I  peeped  out  of  the  window  and  saw 
him  drive  off.  All  sorts  of  French  Nobs  bowing  and 
scraping.  .  .  .  Orders  and  Stars  and  shiny  carriages,  and 
silver-mounted  harness  on  prancing  bays.  .  .  .  Yet  if  he 
had  asked  me,  I  wouldn't  have  changed  places.  Thinks  I, 
'How  much  better  to  be  Me,  plain  William  Furnival,  an 
honest  English  Commoner,  than  an  Emperor  whose  crime- 
stained  conscience  keeps  him  broad  awake  o '  nights ! '  ! 

Said  Juliette,  her  eyes  blue  fire,  two  angry  roses  in  her 
usually  pale  cheeks: 


462  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"But  you,  Monsieur — who  also  sleep  badly — is  that  be- 
cause you  have  crime  upon  your  soul?" 

"What  have  you  said  to  this  creature  that  has  fright- 
ened him?"  Adelaide  demanded,  as  the  drab  traveler's  jaw 
dropped,  and  his  red  nose  glowed  brilliantly  in  a  visage  of 
dingy-white. 

Juliette  translated.  Said  Madame,  regarding  the  per- 
turbed Mr.  Furnival,  with  a  glance  of  superb  indifference : 

"He  is  a  runaway  husband  of  some  Englishwoman  who 
keeps  a  pension.  Or  the  absconding  clerk  of  a  London 
notary." 

Whatever  he  may  or  may  not  have  been,  he  fell  silent 
after  the  little  passage  here  recorded.  At  Bazeilles,  where 
the  driver  was  paid,  and  the  wagonette  dismissed,  though 
he  entered  the  same  train  of  vilely  dirty  third-class  car- 
riages and  goods-trucks,  he  traveled  in  a  compartment  re- 
mote from  that  selected  by  his  companions  of  the  drive. 

At  Verdun  they  learned  that  the  railway  bridge  below 
Metz  had  been  blown  up  by  M.  de  Bazaine  's  Engineers,  the 
line  beyond  being  in  Prussian  hands.  .  .  .  And  at  this 
point  the  drab  gentleman  got  out,  hugging  his  violin-case, 
bag,  and  artist's  fit-out.  Juliette  saw  him  swallowed  up 
in  a  roaring  crowd  of  mobilists  from  the  Ardennes,  who 
rushed  upon  and  instantly  crammed  solid  every  corner  of 
the  train. 

A  good-looking  officer,  entering  with  the  deluge,  apolo- 
gized to  the  ladies  in  a  well-bred,  easy  way : 

"It  is  inconvenient,  Mesdames,  but  at  the  same  time 
necessary.  ...  I  take  these  little  ones  to  Chalons  to  be 
incorporated  in  the  New  Army  of  MacMahon.  .  .  .  They 
are  rough,  as  you  perceive,  and  very  few  are  yet  in  uni- 
form. But  blue  cloth  and  red  cloth  are  less  important 
than  chassepots,  and  they  have  them  and  can  use  them — 
these  little  ones  of  mine !  And  when  they  receive  orders  to 
march  north  and  give  a  helping  hand  to  M.  de  Bazaine — 
I  prophesy  that,  boots  or  no  boots,  they  will  keep  up  with 
the  best!" 

Adelaide  smiled  witchingly  on  the  speaker,  plied  the 
archery  of  her  fine  eyes,  evoking  admiring  glances  from  the 
officer  and  his  uncouth,  half-clad,  half-trained  mobilists. 
She  said  she  had  no  doubt  of  the  courage  of  these  sons  of 
Western  France.  She  had  heard,  she  added,  that  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  465 

Emperor  was  at  Chalons,  but  that  H.I.M.  intended  to 
resort  to  Paris,  having  surrendered  to  another  the  baton  of 
supreme  command. 

*  *  '  To  Paris ' ! "  The  officer  shrugged.  ' '  Alas !  at  such  a 
crisis  in  the  affairs  of  the  nation,  Paris  would  be  the  last 
shelter  for  the  French  Emperor.  It  is  no  longer  a  secret 
that  the  Emperor  has  already  left  Chalons  with  the  Grand 
Headquarters  Staff  and  the  First  Corps  of  the  Army  of 
MacMahon.  .  .  .  Rheims  is  the  destination — that  intelli- 
gence is  also  public  property.  ..." 

"And  the  Prince?"  Adelaide  asked  eagerly. 

' '  Monseigneur  the  Prince  Imperial  left  for  Rheims  with 
the  Emperor,  but  will  be  sent  on  from  there  to  Rethel,  with 
his  carriages,  and  an  escort  of  Imperial  Body  Guards 
under  Colonel  Watrin.  His  three  aides-de-camp,  Colonel 
Lamey,  Colonel  Comte  Clary,  and  Commandant  Duperre 
of  the  battleship  Le  Taureau,  attend  him.  Comte  d'Aure 
is  equerry  now  instead  of  old  Bachon !  .  .  .  Pardon,  Ma- 
dame? .  .  .  You  descend  here  .  .  .  ?  But  I  thought  you 
were  traveling  to  Chalons!  .  .  .  Permit  me  to  open  the 
carriage  door ! ' ' 

And  the  prattling  officer,  who  had  promised  himself  a 
charming  vis-a-vis  upon  the  journey,  must  needs  leap  out 
upon  the  platform,  arrest  the  guard's  arm  in  the  act  of 
signaling  the  start.  .  .  .  Adelaide  was  handed  down. 
.  .  .  Juliette  followed  with  an  avalanche  of  Madame 's 
traveling  bags  and  parcels  ...  a  discontented  porter  was 
called  upon  to  rescue  her  trunks  and  portmanteaux  from 
the  van.  .  .  . 

The  signal  fell,  the  train  steamed  out  of  the  station. 
Juliette,  white  and  fagged,  sitting  on  an  up-piled  luggage 
truck,  was  asked  by  Adelaide : 

"Where  do  you  think  we  are  going  now,  Mademoiselle?" 

Came  the  weary  answer: 

"I  do  not  know,  Madame.  .  .  .  First,  it  was  to  Metz, 
and  then  to  Chalons.  Now,  it  may  be  to  Rheims,  as  the 
Emperor  is  there." 

Adelaide  returned  tormentingly : 

"But  we  are  not  going  to  Rheims." 

A  thrill  passed  through  Juliette. 

"My  father  is  not  a  prisoner,  then?" 

"My  faith!"  said  Adelaide,  shrugging  with  ostentatious 
indifference.  "He  is  as  he  was  yesterday.  But  all  the 


464  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

same,  my  little  one,  we  do  not  go  to  Rheims,  but  to  Rethel. 
.  .  .  Tell  me — you  have  brought  with  you  a  walking- 
costume  that  is  tolerable  ?  Something  more  becoming  than 
this  lugubrious  garment  you  have  on!" 

Juliette  replied  in  the  negative.  Adelaide's  look  was 
coldly  scornful  as  she  scrutinized  the  little  figure  before 
her.  Could  this  really  be  her  daughter,  this  pale,  peaked, 
elfish  thing?  .  .  . 

What  sloping  shoulders,  what  tragic,  haunted  eyes,  what 
a  long  upper  lip,  what  lack  of  vivacity  and  elegance.  .  .  . 
Her  grandmother — that  well-loathed  woman,  lived  again 
in  de  Bayard 's  child. 

Monseigneur  the  Prince  Imperial  must  have  curious  taste 
in  feminine  beauty  to  have  been  smitten  with  this  stiff 
little  white-faced  mannequin.  Whom  de  Bayard  wor- 
shiped .  .  .  whom  even  Straz  had  admired.  .  .  .  What 
were  his  words  .  .  .  "A  little  Queen  of  Diamonds,  fresh 
as  a  rosebud!"  Grand  Dieu!  .  .  .  how  comical!  "A  rare 
jewel.  .  .  .  A  chic  type.  .  .  .  A  pocket  edition  of  Psyche, 
before  that  little  affair  with  Cupid." 

Well,  Cupid  waited  at  Rethel.  .  .  .  Her  red  lips  writhed 
with  the  jeering  laughter  she  stifled.  Two  devils  of  mock- 
ery looked  through  the  windows  of  her  eyes.  And  with 
the  swift  understanding  of  this  stranger  that  came  of 
their  close,  intimate  relationship,  Juliette  encountering 
that  look,  said  mentally: 

' '  She  hates  me !  My  mother  hates  me !  For  that  reason 
she  sought  me  out  and  told  me  that  false  tale.  .  .  .  Be- 
cause of  that  she  lured  me  away  with  her  from  Brussels! 
Because  of  that  she  has  planned  to  do  something.  .  .  . 
Oh,  my  father,  if  only  you  knew !  .  .  . " 


LIV 

THE  Hope  of  a  tottering  and  crumbling  Empire  was  in- 
stalled at  the  Prefecture  of  Rethel,  a  picturesque,  old- 
world  river-town  of  many  bridges,  and  houses  with  quaint 
carved  gables,  slanting  floors,  and  low  ceilings  crossed  by 
heavy  beams. 

He  had  arrived  late  on  the  previous  evening.    There  had 
been  no  flags,  no  bands,  no  popular  ovation,  no  delirium  of 


465 

enthusiasm  in  greeting  the  Imperial  heir.  Press  organs 
were  now  telling  incredulous  Parisians  that  in  considera- 
tion of  the  Prince's  weariness  the  people  had  foregone 
their  privilege  of  welcome.  In  honest  truth,  the  unlucky 
townsfolk  were  too  sad  and  sick-hearted  to  cheer. 

A  great  battle  was  impending  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Metz.  The  First  and  Second  Armies  of  United  Germany 
had  crossed  the  Moselle,  wheeled  right-about-face,  and  were 
closing  in  on  Bazaine,  who  had  failed  in  his  attempt  to 
retire  upon  Chalons  by  the  Verdun  Road.  The  Prussian 
Crown  Prince  had  come  out  of  the  Vosges,  and  was  march- 
ing North  instead  of  moving  upon  Chalons.  If  his  van- 
guard clashed  with  MacMahon's  patched-up  Army  there 
would  be  trouble.  .  .  .  Everyone  expected  trouble,  the 
soil  of  France  had  been  sown  so  thickly  with  the  bad  seed 
from  which  great  national  disasters  spring,  even  before 
it  had  been  plowed  by  German  shells.  .  .  .  The  coming 
tragedy  chilled  and  numbed  as  the  iceberg  chills  the  senses 
of  the  passenger  in  the  Atlantic  liner's  warm  deck-cabin, 
long  before  the  keel  grates,  and  the  white  fog  lifts,  and 
shows  the  towering  Death  on  which  the  doomed  vessel  is 
being  hurled. 

The  deep  dejection  of  the  officers  around  the  Heir  Im- 
perial could  not  be  covered  by  any  well-meant  attempts  at 
disguise.  The  rumors  that  came  through  the  fog  into 
which  Bazaine  had  vanished  were  horribly  disquieting. 
They  waited  upon  thorns,  for  a  telegram  from  the  Em- 
peror, conveying  intelligence  on  which  they  might  rely. 

There  was  something  in  the  situation  of  the  lonely,  proud 
young  creature  they  surrounded  that  made  the  heart  bleed 
as  you  looked  at  him.  So  helpless  and  yet  so  representa- 
tive of  unfettered  Power,  so  ignorant  in  the  ways  of  the 
world,  and  yet  so  conversant  with  its  outward  forms  and 
ceremonies,  so  palpably  the  last  frail  link  upon  a  chain 
that  was  being  hacked  through  by  the  Prussian  sword. 

He  had  grown  older  and  thinner  since  the  days  of  July, 
and  his  fresh,  fine  color  had  faded  to  paleness.  There  was 
a  frown  upon  the  open  forehead  now,  the  gay,  confident 
regard  had  changed  to  sullenness.  The  blue  eyes  were 
less  lustrous.  The  silky  chestnut  hair  was  rumpled  and 
duller.  Care  had  overshadowed  the  boyish  head  with  her 
heavy  sable  wing. 

The  arrival  of  the  previous  night  had  been  sudden  and 


466  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

unexpected,  the  startled  authorities  had  been  rarely  put 
about  to  find  fitting  accommodation  for  their  Emperor's 
son.  This  morning  Monseigneur  had  been  hurried  out  of 
his  bed  at  the  Prefecture  to  receive  the  apologies  of  the 
Prefect,  an  Imperialistic  vine-grower,  who  had  been  absent 
in  the  interests  of  his  affairs. 

"Your  Imperial  Highness  will  be  aware  that  this  is  a 
critical  month  with  owners  of  vineyards.  The  vines  have 
borne  well  and  the  grapes  are  ripening  magnificently. 
Next  month  the  champagne-making  ought  to  be  in  full 
progress.  But  the  lack  of  hands  terribly  hampers  us.  ... 
Women  cannot  replace  the  men  who  are  skilled  in  the 
various  processes.  And  who  knows 

The  Prefect  broke  off,  for  the  Sub-Prefect  had  nudged 
him  openly.  Even  if  the  tide  of  War  should  turn,  and 
France  be  freed  from  her  invaders,  who  knew  whether  any 
of  those  grape-pickers  and  sorters  and  pressers,  Reservists 
and  volunteers  and  conscripts  who  had  been  called  out  to 
carry  the  chassepot  against  the  Prussians,  would  ever  re- 
turn to  their  countryside  again  ?  Who  knew  whether  they 
would  not  be  thrown  as  ripe  grapes  into  Death 's  huge  wine- 
press? Perhaps  their  red  blood  was  foaming  in  the  vat 
even  now. 

Who  knew  whether  those  rich,  prosperous  vineyards  on 
the  Aisne  would  not  be  trampled  into  sticky  mashiness 
under  the  ruthless  feet  of  Prussian  Army  Corps?  If  the 
rumors  were  correct,  an  advance  upon  Paris  might  take 
place  at  any  moment.  True,  MacMahon's  Army  was  said 
to  be  covering  the  road  to  the  capital. 

But  MacMahon  had  been  already  beaten  terribly.  .  .  . 
Recollecting  it,  the  Prefect  shuddered  in  his  well-polished 
shoes. 

But  he  said  his  say  and  shook  the  young  hand  graciously 
offered  him,  and  got  out  of  his  own  wife's  drawing-room 
as  awkwardly  as  though  he  had  been  one  of  his  own  clerks. 
While  the  Sub-Prefect,  a  sharp-visaged  little  man,  who 
combined  the  office  of  public  notary  with  the  trade  of 
wool-stapler,  trotted  after  him,  very  much  at  his  ease. 

"How  you  sweat!  Wipe  your  head  and  your  neck  too," 
counseled  the  notary.  "Otherwise  your  cravat  will  be  a 
perfect  wisp  and  Madame  will  certainly  take  you  to  task ! ' ' 

"You  have  such  sangfroid,  my  good  M.  Schlitte.    I  envy 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON"  467 

you;  I  do,  positively!"  stuttered  the  Prefect,  puffing  and 
blowing  and  mopping.  "Royalty  invariably  dazzles  me. 
...  I  tremble  ...  I  blunder.  ...  In  a  word,  I  make  a 
fool  of  myself!  At  this  moment  I  am  tortured  by  the 
weight  of  my  responsibilities.  .  .  .  True — His  Highness 
is  well  guarded — true,  the  Army  of  Chalons  is  somewhere 
or  other  in  the  neighborhood !  .  .  .  But  the  daring  of  these 
Prussian  horsemen  .  .  .  the  danger  of  a  surprise!  ..." 

"A  surprise.  .  .  .  Nonsense,  my  dear  sir.  The  thing  is 
impossible ! ' ' 

And  M.  Schlitte,  who  was  said  upon  the  strength  of  his 
queer  French  accent  to  be  a  native  of  Strasbourg,  soothed 
the  Prefect,  and  grinned  like  a  rat-trap  as  he  betook  him- 
self home.  Inhabiting  a  riverside  villa  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, from  which  residence — we  may  suppose  for  the 
better  conduct  of  his  extensive  business — a  private  tele- 
graphic installation  connected  him  with  Rheims,  Paris, 
Brussels,  Luxembourg — and,  when  necessary,  Berlin — it 
would  have  been  possible  to  have  made  arrangements  for 
that  very  contingency.  His  suggestions  were  not  adopted 
at  the  Prussian  Headquarters,  but  his  zeal  was  approved 
in  the  right  place.  He  became  Prefect  of  Rethel  a  little 
later,  when  Berlin  was  settled  at  Versailles. 

He  stopped  now,  on  his  way  back  to  his  villa,  to  send 
the  town-band  round  to  the  Place  of  the  Prefecture  and 
to  bribe  some  loafers  with  small  silver  to  mix  with  the 
crowd  and  cheer  for  the  Emperor  and  the  Prince.  Conse- 
quently, a  drum,  trombone,  cornet,  and  ophicleide  shortly 
made  their  appearance  before  the  Imperial  lodgings.  .  .  . 
La  Eeine  Eortense  and  Partant  Pour  La  Syrie  entertained 
Monseigneur  while  he  breakfasted.  Since  then  he  had 
thrice  been  summoned  out  upon  the  balcony  to  acknowl- 
edge the  acclamations  of  the  loyal  populace  of  Rethel. 

It  was  pouring  rain,  and  the  knots  of  spies,  loafers,  and 
genuine  enthusiasts  were  sheltered  by  umbrellas.  The  very 
fowls  that  pecked  between  the  cobbles  had  a  listless  and 
draggled  air.  The  boy  shivered  as  he  turned  from,  the 
dismal  outdoor  prospect  to  contemplate  the  Empire  hang- 
ings, ormolu  girandoles,  and  obsolete,  scroll-backed  chairs 
and  claw-foot  tables,  gracing  the  Prefect's  wife's  reception- 
room.  He  told  himself  that  it  was  horrible,  even  when  one 


468  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

waited  for  the  news  of  certain  victory,  to  be  shut  up  in  a 
beastly  hole  like  this. 

He  nearly  jumped  for  joy  when  the  name  of  M.  de  Straz 
was  brought  him  by  his  equerry.  He  remembered  the 
Roumanian  agent,  who  had  previously  been  presented  to 
him. 

"Pray  bring  him  quickly,  M.  le  Comte,"  he  said  eagerly 
to  M.  d'Aure,  who  had  replaced  old  M.  Bachon.  "It  is 
possible  that  he  may  bring  a  message  from  the  Emperor. ' ' 

He  colored,  and  his  eyes  regained  a  little  of  their  old 
brightness.  The  green-and-gold  equerry,  who  loved  him, 
as  did  every  member  of  his  household,  was  glad  to  see  him 
interested,  for  more  reasons  than  one. 

Straz,  known  to  be  a  secret  agent  of  the  Emperor,  and 
hailing  from  Rheims,  where  his  employer  was  now — Straz 
might  well  amuse  the  Prince  while  his  protectors  waited 
for  an  Imperial  telegram.  Meanwhile,  the  bodyguard 
about  the  Prefecture  was  unostentatiously  doubled,  the 
carriages  and  the  baggage  were  secretly  held  in  readiness 
for  a  move. 

You  can  imagine  Straz,  with  his  profile  and  beard  of  a 
courtier  of  old  Nineveh,  bowing  over  the  boyish  hand,  and 
rolling  his  jet-black,  glittering  eyes.  He  had  looked  better 
in  his  Astrachan-trimmed  traveling  jacket  than  in  the 
tight-waisted,  closely  buttoned,  black  frock-coat  and  pearl- 
gray  trousers  of  ceremony,  and  the  inky  river  of  black  silk 
cravat  that  flowed  over  the  expanse  of  white  shirt-front 
now  covering  his  Herculean  chest. 

He  wore  white  spats,  which  made  his  short  legs  appear 
shorter.  A  bouquet  adorned  his  buttonhole — pink  carna- 
tion and  tuberose.  Its  cloying  fragrance  hung  heavily  on 
the  damp  air  of  the  Prefecture  reception-room,  as  the  boy 
pleasantly  said: 

"Good-day,  M.  de  Straz;  do  you  come  to  us  from  the 
Emperor  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  my  Prince,  and  no!  .  .  ."  Straz  had  long  ago 
got  rid  of  his  cold,  yet  a  certain  thickness  characterized  his 
consonants.  He  shrugged  his  great  shoulders  and  smiled, 
showing  his  dazzling  double  curves  of  solid  human  ivory. 
"I  come  from  Rheims,  where  His  Imperial  Majesty  is  mak- 
ing history.  ...  I  am  not  charged  with  any  message 
from  him!" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  469 

The  boy's  face  fell.  He  said,  with,  a  brave  effort  to 
conquer  his  disappointment:  "I  am  impatient,  Monsieur, 
for  news  of  another  victory.  It  is  so  long  since  the  engage- 
ment of  Saarbriick,  and  that  was  only  a  little  one.  You 
are  an  officer  in  the  Army  of  Roumania,  you  have  told  me. 
You  are  aware,  even  better  than  I,  that  military  plans  take 
time  to  develop  .  .  .  and  that  Papa  has  every  confidence  in 
the  generalship  of  M.  de  Bazaine.  ...  If  I  were  five  or 
six  years  older,  I  should  be  admitted  to  the  Councils  of 
the  Imperial  Btat  Major.  ...  I  should  understand  the 
reasons  for  these  changes  which  puzzle  me.  .  .  .  But  one 
thing  I  should  like  to  ask  ..."  He  flushed  and  glanced 
round  nervously.  ''They  do  not  believe  in  Paris  or  Lon- 
don that  we  are  being  .  .  .  beaten?  ...  I  beg  of  you  to 
answer  me  candidly ! ' ' 

Straz  drew  himself  up  dramatically,  expanding  his  huge 
chest,  and  curling  his  parted  mustache.  His  fierce  black 
eyes,  staring  from  their  great  curved  arches,  glittered  like 
balls  of  polished  jet.  .  .  . 

"They  do  not,  my  Prince!  They  wait  for  the  Star  of 
the  Bonapartes  to  rise  resplendent  from  a  sea  of  gore  shed 
from  Prussian  veins.  .  .  .  They  wait,  as  the  world  waits, 
for  the  Empire  to  emerge  more  glorious  than  ever  from 
this  conflict,  which  will  restore  to  her  forever  her  lost 
Provinces  of  the  Rhine.  It  may  be  that  the  Coronation  of 
Napoleon  IV.  will  be  solemnized  in  the  Cathedral  of  Co- 
logne. .  .  .  Aha,  my  Prince,  have  I  won  a  smile  at  last?" 

He  looked,  despite  the  frock-coat,  more  than  ever  like 
some  ancient  warrior  of  Assyria,  marching  in  a  carved  and 
painted  procession  along  the  walls  of  some  unearthed 
palace  of  Nineveh  or  Babylon.  And  so  admirable  an  actor 
was  he  that  the  sick  heart  of  the  boy  now  warmed  at  his 
simulated  fire,  and  gladdened  at  his  deceptive  words  of 
hope. 

"I  had  pictured  my  Imperial  Prince,"  he  went  on,  "in 
brighter  and  less  gloomy  surroundings,  with  sympathetic 
and  delightful  companions  to  alleviate  his  exile  from 
home. ' ' 

He  had  touched  the  wrong  chord.  The  slender,  well- 
made  figure  was  drawn  up  proudly.  The  delicate  brows 
frowned,  the  lips  quivered  as  the  boy  said: 


470  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Monsieur,  it  is  not  'exile'  when  an  officer  is  ordered  on 
Active  Service.  .  .  .  And  I  am  with  the  French  Army, 
whose  uniform  I  wear.  For  the  moment  the  Emperor,  my 
commanding  officer,  has  ordered  me  to  remain  here.  .  .  . 
I  did  wrong  to  grumble — I  shall  do  so  no  more!" 

Straz  grinned  and  bowed  to  cover  his  momentary  con- 
fusion. Why  had  he  used  the  indigestible  word?  He 
touched  his  buttonhole  bouquet  and  said  with  a  treacly 
inflection : 

"There  are  no  violets — it  is  not  the  proper  season.  .  .  . 
Does  Monseigneur  remember  when  the  purple  blooms 
reached  him  regularly  at  intervals,  one  timid  scrap  of 
paper  hiding  among  the  slender  stems?  .  .  .  And  would 
he,  did  he  know  how  the  sender  languished  for  news  of 
him — entrust  me  with  one  penciled  message  of  kindness 
that  might  restore  the  rose  to  a  fading  cheek?" 

The  clear-eyed,  fresh  face  of  the  boy  he  harangued  un- 
derwent several  changes  during  this  windy  apostrophe. 
For  one  brief  instant  it  flushed  and  brightened  eagerly, 
then  it  frowned  with  perplexity,  then  it  twitched  with  the 
evident  desire  to  laugh. 

He  said,  controlling  his  amusement  with  his  grace  of 
good-breeding : 

"Monsieur,  if  it  was  a  lady  who  sent  me  those  violets, 
pray  tell  her  that  she  was  very  good  to  do  so,  and  that  I 
thank  her  very  much.  And  since  she  asks  for  a  message — 
perhaps  this  will  do  as  well  ? ' ' 

He  turned  to  the  writing-table,  where  some  sheets,  cov- 
ered with  clever  pen-and-ink  caricatures,  lay  on  the  blot- 
ter, and  took  up  a  rough  little  outline  drawing  of  a  land- 
scape, marked  with  lines  of  dots  and  written  over  with 
notes.  He  said  ingenuously,  offering  this  to  the  Rou- 
manian : 

"See,  Monsieur,  this  is  a  mere  sketch  of  the  affair  at 
Saarbriick.  I  did  it  to  send  my  tutor  at  Paris,  but  M. 
Filon  shall  have  another  one.  ...  If  the  lady  has  sons  of 
my  age,  no  doubt  they  will  be  able  to  draw  far  better. 
Nevertheless,  here  it  is!" 

Under  the  date  of  August  2nd,  he  had  signed  it,  with  a 
touch  of  boyish  vanity: 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  471 

"Under  fire  for  the  first  time. 

"your  affectionate 

"Louis  Napoleon.'' 

"What  genius! — what  a  gift!  How  gracious  an  act  of 
kindness  on  the  part  of  your  Imperial  Highness!" 

Straz  grabbed  the  little  scrawl  eagerly,  pressed  his  moist 
scarlet  lips  to  it  with  theatrical  devotion — made  a  tremen- 
dous flourish  of  putting  it  away  in  a  pocketbook,  and  be- 
stowing this  receptacle  near  the  region  of  his  heart. 

' '  Though  the  lady  has  no  sons — she  is  not  even  yet  mar- . 
ried,"  he  hinted.  "Dare  I  confide  a  secret  to  Mon- 
seigneur? — she  is  a  young  and  beautiful  girl!" 

Monseigneur  had  been  promising  himself  to  caricature 
Straz  at  the  next  opportunity,  not  forgetting  to  make  the 
most  of  his  profile,  hair,  and  beard.  Young  and  beautiful 
girls  were  no  novelties  to  Louis  Napoleon,  accustomed  to 
do  the  honors  of  Versailles  and  Saint  Cloud  to  the  muslin- 
clad  daughters  of  the  sparkling  coquettes  who  frequented 
the  Imperial  Circle.  He  began,  struggling  with  the  bore- 
dom that  began  to  oppress  him: 

"If  the  young  girl  is  your  fiancee,  Monsieur,  or  your 
daughter ' ' 

The  speaker  broke  off  at  the  sound  of  hoofs  and  wheels 
on  the  cobblestones  of  the  Place,  the  bump  of  a  carriage- 
step  let  down,  hitting  the  curb  before  the  Prefecture.  .  .  . 
Someone  had  arrived  with  a  message  from  the  Emperor: 
or  perhaps  it  was  only  the  Prefect's  wife  returning  from 
an  airing.  .  .  .  Straz  would  have  been  other  than  himself 
had  he  failed  to  seize  the  opportunity. 

"Monseigneur,  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard  is  not  affianced. 
She  has  hitherto  declined  all  alliances  proposed  as  ad- 
vantageous— it  is  said  her  affections  are  secretly  en- 
gaged! ..." 

His  smirk  revolted  even  while  it  fascinated.  He  said, 
rolling  his  glistening  black  eyes  about  the  apartment — 
shrugging  his  great  shoulders,  laying  a  thick  white  squat- 
nailed  finger  mysteriously  against  his  carmine  lips: 

"Engaged  since  a  little  rencontre  that  took  place  in  the 
month  of  January.  .  .  .  There  were  disturbances  in  Paris 
— which  the  troops  had  been  called  out  to  quell.  Eiding 
with  M.  de  Frossard  in  the  Avenues  of  the  Champs  Elysees, 


472  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

your  Highness  passed  close  by  a  young  girl  in  a  cab.  She 
cried  out,  'Vive  le  Prince  Imperial!'  .  .  .  She  threw  a 
knot  of  violets,  which  struck  your  horse  on  the  shoulder. 
.  .  .  You  had  the  flowers  in  your  hand,  Monseigneur, 
when  you  rode  away." 

"Ah,  now  I  remember!"  The  boy's  blush  became  him. 
' '  Or  I  should  say  I  have  not  forgotten.  And  where  is  she 
now,  Monsieur?" 

"Where  is  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard?  Your  Imperial 
Highness  would  like  to  know?" 

Straz,  who  had  thrilled  with  a  sportsman's  joy  at  the 
curtsey  of  the  float  betokening  a  nibble,  would  have  given 
his  soul  to  know  himself.  .  .  .  Now,  as  he  delayed,  with 
the  air  of  one  who  momentarily  holds  back  something 
eagerly  waited  for,  the  equerry  knocked  and  entered,  ap- 
proached and  whispered  to  the  Prince. 


LY 

"Bur  surely,  M.  le  Comte,  it  would  please  me  to  receive 
these  two  ladies.  M.  de  Straz  has  just  been  speaking  of 
Mademoiselle  de  Bayard." 

And  he  dismissed  Straz,  who  for  once  had  been  stricken 
speechless;  giving  his  hand  to  him  and  saying:  "I  am 
very  much  obliged  by  your  visit,  Monsieur ! ' ' 

The  equerry  retired,  shepherding  the  unstrung  Rou- 
manian. The  Prince  waited,  looking  at  the  door. 

He  heard  footsteps  descending  the  stairs,  a  slight  bustle 
in  the  hall,  or  so  it  seemed  to  him.  Once  a  raised  voice 
cried  out  something,  drowned  in  the  buzzing  of  the  crowd 
that  now  gorged  the  Place  of  the  Prefecture. 

It  still  rained.  The  brass  helmets  of  the  Fire-Brigade 
and  the  black  shakos  of  the  local  police  strung  out  along 
the  edge  of  the  pavement,  showed  as  fringing  a  solid  mass 
of  dripping  umbrellas;  there  were  clumps  of  more  privi- 
leged umbrellas  in  the  middle  of  the  Place,  where  a  hack- 
ney-carriage now  stood,  doubtless  the  vehicle  that  a  mo- 
ment previously  had  stopped  before  the  door.  The  Cent 
Gardes  had  their  undress  cocked-hats  on ;  their  blue-caped 
mantles,  pulled  out  in  cavalry  fashion  over  the  hindquar- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  473 

ters  of  their  tall  brown  horses,  shed  off  the  merciless  down- 
pour like  penthouse  roofs.  .  .  . 

Brr!  It  was  chilly.  Why  did  not  Mademoiselle  come? 
Such  delay  was  rather  a  breach  of  etiquette. 

Meanwhile,  there  upon  the  blotter  lay  a  sheet  of  paper, 
with  an  unfinished  caricature  upon  it — masterly,  consider- 
ing that  a  mere  boy  had  drawn  it — representing  M.  Thiers, 
bald,  spectacled,  oracularly  smiling,  in  the  guise  of  a  gob- 
bling turkey-cock. 

M.  Thiers  would  keep.  The  Prince  chose  another  sheet, 
and  began  his  portrait  of  the  Koumanian,  humming  a  song, 
popular  with  the  African  infantry-regiments,  in  capital 
tune  and  time.  "Gentle  Turco"  had  been  half  sung 
through  when  the  door  opened.  The  crisp  grizzled  curls, 
tanned  soldierly  face,  waxed  mustache,  and  green-and- 
silver  uniform  of  the  equerry  reappeared  upon  the  thresh- 
old, ushering  in  a  small  young  lady.  .  .  .  D'Aure  said,  as 
the  boy  laid  down  his  pen,  rose  and  came  toward  them : 

"  Monseigneur,  I  bring  the  young  lady  of  whom  I  spoke 
to  you,  daughter  of  Colonel  de  Bayard,  777th  Chasseurs 
of  the  Emperor's  Guard.  She  has  convinced  me  of  her 
identity  by  showing  me  a  portrait,  and  a  letter  from  her 
father.  .  .  .  She  begs  me  to  assure  you  that  she  will  not 
detain  you  longer  than  ten  minutes.  For  that  space  of 
time  I  will  return  to  the  lady  downstairs."  He  added  at 
the  Prince 's  glance  of  inquiry :  ' '  The  lady  is  the  wife  of  a 
French  officer,  and  accompanied  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard. 
As  I  went  downstairs  just  now  with  M.  de  Straz,  we  en- 
countered both  ladies  in  the  vestibule.  A  giddiness  seized 
the  elder,  she  cried  out,  and  swooned  away." 

The  Prince  said : 

"Pray  give  orders  that  the  sick  lady  is  to  have  every 
attention ! ' ' 

D'Aure  answered  that  the  wife  of  the  Prefect  was  with 
Madame  even  then.  He  saluted,  and  repeated  with  an 
accent  of  finality : 

"For  the  space  of  ten  minutes,  Monseigneur.  ..." 

Then  he  bowed  to  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard,  and  went 
quickly  out  of  the  room. 

The  Prince  began,  with  a  touch  of  boyish  pompousness: 

"We  have  met  before,  Mademoiselle.  My  thanks  for  the 
violets!" 


474  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

For  he  knew  this  face  with  cheeks  so  fairly  rose-tinted, 
with  eyes  that  shone  brilliant  as  blue  jewels  from  their 
covert  of  black  lashes,  with  the  softly-smiling  mouth.  The 
dull  moth  shone  out  a  butterfly  in  the  radiance  of  the  joy 
that  overbrimmed  her.  She  was  near  her  Prince  Imperial, 
Juliette  de  Bayard,  who  was  not  so  much  loyal  as  Loyalty 
incarnate,  to  whom  the  tawdry  figure  of  the  Emperor  was 
invested  with  godlike  splendor,  in  whose  esteem  the  Em- 
pire was  France — her  France.  .  .  . 

She  was  attired  as  she  had  been  when  she  left  Brussels 
with  Adelaide.  Only  a  fichu  of  black  and  white  Malines 
lace  that  she  had  brought  in  the  handbag  containing  linen, 
and  toilet  requisites,  had  been  pinned  about  her  narrow, 
sloping  shoulders,  and  a  tiny  bonnet  matching  this  was 
perched  upon  her  magnificent  coils  of  cloudy-black  hair. 
Her  deft  fingers  had  fashioned  it  in  a  few  minutes  out  of 
the  long  ends  of  the  over-ample  fichu.  A  bunch  of 
fragrant  red  roses  had  been  pinned  upon  her  bosom  by 
Madame.  She  had  purchased  out  of  her  own  slender  re- 
sources a  fringed  gray  silk  parasol  and  a  pair  of  little 
gray  kid  gloves.  And  in  this  hastily  arranged  toilette  she 
looked  elegant,  refined,  exclusive  as  any  slender  aristocrat 
of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  You  would  never  have  sus- 
pected the  tumult  beneath  her  sedate  composure.  Yet  she 
thrilled  in  every  fiber  as  she  swept  her  stateliest  curtsey 
before  the  slender  boy  in  the  unassuming  uniform  of  a 
subaltern  of  infantry. 

' '  Monseigneur  is  too  good  to  remember  so  infinitely 
trifling  an  occurrence  .  .  .  more  than  gracious  to  consent 
to  receive  me  now !  But  that  my  dear  father  is  a  prisoner 
in  the  hands  of  the  Prussians,  I  would  not  dare  to  intrude 
upon  the  privacy  of  my  Prince.  Oh,  Monseigneur !  of  your 
pity  prevail  upon  the  Emperor  to  obtain  the  exchange  of 
my  father  for  some  German  officer  of  equal  rank  in  his 
Army!  Think,  oh,  pray! — think  how  I  ..." 

She  stopped  to  control  herself  .  .  .  felt  for  her  handker- 
chief to  dry  the  tears  that  were  blinding  her  .  .  .  dropped 
the  scrap  of  cambric  upon  the  Aubusson  carpet  gracing  the 
drawing-room  of  the  Prefecture.  The  Prince  picked  the 
handkerchief  up  as  Mademoiselle  hastily  stooped  to  recover 
it  ...  their  heads  encountered  in  the  act.  The  bump  was 
a  hard  one — Juliette  could  have  sunk  into  the  earth  with 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  475 

confusion.    .    .    .     But  the   Prince   rubbed  his   forehead, 
grinned,  and  called  out  like  any  other  schoolboy: 

"My  word!  that  was  a  stunner!  I  do  hope  you're  not 
hurt?  Are  you,  as  it  happens,  Mademoiselle?" 

"No,  no,  Monseigneur!    But  you?  ..." 

' '  I  am  all  right !    Saw  lots  of  stars,  though ! ' ' 

He  burst  out  laughing.  And  so  infectious  was  the  peal 
of  merriment  that  for  one  blissful  moment  of  forgetf ulness 
Juliette  joined  in. 

"To  laugh  does  the  heart  good,"  the  boy  assured  her. 
He  went  on :  "  Do  not  be  unhappy,  for  I  will  telegraph  to 
the  Emperor.  He  never  denies  me  anything  I  ask  him. 
.  .  .  Depend  upon  it,  he  will  do  everything  in  his  power 
for  your  father,  Mademoiselle!" 

She  looked  all  thanks,  saying  in  her  voice  of  silver : 

"I  shall  pray  with  redoubled  fervor  for  His  Imperial 
Majesty.  And  for  you,  Monseigneur — be  well  assured  of 
it !  Now,  with  all  my  gratitude,  I  will  retire  if  your  High- 
ness permits?" 

She  swept  her  curtsey,  and  would  have  withdrawn  then 
had  not  Monseigneur  called  out  eagerly : 

' '  No,  no !  We  have  still  eight  of  our  ten  minutes !  Don 't 
go!  ...  I  do  so  like  the  way  you  talk.  .  .  .  Mon  Dieu! 
What  would  the  Empress  say  to  me  if  she  knew  that  I  had 
left  a  lady  standing !  Pray  sit  down  here,  Mademoiselle ! ' ' 

He  turned  round  the  writing-chair  in  which  he  had  been 
sitting,  made  her  take  it — perched  himself  upon  the  corner 
of  the  writing-table,  a  schoolboy  of  fifteen  in  spite  of  his 
uniform,  pouring  out  his  heart  to  a  girl  older  than  he. 

"It  was  horrible  here  until  you  came!  ...  I  was  so 
lonely!  Everybody  looks  so  strange,  and  no  news  comes 
through.  It  would  have  been  better  to  have  stayed  at 
Metz,  where  there  is  fighting.  But  no!  We  were  com- 
pelled to  return  to  Chalons.  .  .  .  On  our  way  we  were 
nearly  caught  by  the  German  cavalry.  They  are  terribly 
daring  .  .  .  they  even  ventured  into  our  lines  at  Longe- 
ville.  .  .  .  But  we  got  to  Verdun  and  traveled  to  Chalons 
in  a  third-class  carriage.  Frightfully  dirty,  and  full  of 
things  that  bit.  .  .  .  And  I  washed  my  face  in  a  thick 
glass  tumbler,  out  of  which  I  had  drunk  some  wine  they 
brought  me.  .  .  .  Fact,  I  assure  you!  .  .  .  But  we  sol- 
diers don't  mind  hardships.  .  .  .  We  get  used  to  them, 
Mademoiselle ! ' ' 


476  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

She  looked  up  at  the  brightened  face  with  the  tenderness 
of  an  elder  sister.  He  went  on  with  increasing  animation 
and  growing  confidence: 

"Do  you  see  that  little  black  box  standing  there  in  the 
corner?  That's  my  officer's  kit — all  the  baggage  we're 
allowed  to  have  on  Active  Service.  There  are*  other  boxes 
with  other  things  ..."  He  blushed.  "The  valets  look 
after  them.  .  .  .  But  this  I  keep  under  my  own  eye.  And 
here !  .  .  .  This  I  hold  as  a  great  treasure.  Do  you  think 
I  would  show  it  to  everyone?  .  .  .  Non,  merci!  .  .  .  Be- 
hold, Mademoiselle!" 

He  took  from  a  pocket  beneath  his  tunic  and  showed  her 
a  splinter  of  rusty  iron  wrapped  in  an  envelope. 

' '  Guess  what  this  is !  A  bit  of  a  real  German  bombshell. 
...  It  burst  quite  close  to  the  Emperor  and  me.  ...  I 
thought  a  lot  of  old  iron  was  being  shot  out  of  a  cart,  there 
was  such  a  racket.  .  .  .  This  should  be  a  keepsake  for  the 
friend  one  loves  above  all,  should  it  not?  Otherwise  I 
would  give  it  you,  Mademoiselle ! ' ' 

She  said: 

' '  Monseigneur  is  too  generous.  ...  I  need  no  token  by 
which  to  remember  him!  .  .  .  Have  I  not  the  remem- 
brance of  the  sympathy  and  condescension  with  which  my 
Prince  has  listened  to  a  daughter's  prayer?  .  .  .  Now, 
indeed,  I  must  take  leave  of  Monseigneur!  ..." 

He  persisted  with  boyish  eagerness: 

' '  No,  no !  M.  d  'Aure  will  certainly  return  at  the  end  of 
our  ten  minutes.  And  I  do  like  you  so  much,  Mademoi- 
selle !  .  .  .  Will  you  write  and  tell  me  when  the  Emperor 
obtains  the  release  of  M.  le  Colonel  ?  .  .  .  Will  you  let  me 
hear  how  you  liked  the  little  sketch  I  gave  M.  de  Straz  for 
you?" 

She  was  puzzled,  and  looked  it: 

"Monseigneur  will  pardon  me,  but  the  name  of  M.  de 
Straz  is  that  of  a  stranger.  .  .  .  Yet  he  has  received  from 
Monseigneur  a  message  for  me?  ..." 

Louis  Napoleon  explained.  She  listened  with  a  gravity 
that  chilled  his  amusement  over  the  message  he  had  sent 
to  the  supposedly  elderly  sender  of  the  violets. 

She  said,  looking  at  him  steadily  with  her  sincere  eyes: 

"I  sent  Monseigneur  no  violets,  with  messages  written 
or  otherwise.  To  have  done  so  would  have  been  presump- 
tuous, and  lacking  in  delicacy.  ...  If  this  M.  de  Straz 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

were  but  here.  ...  If  Monseigneur  could  but  describe 
him!  .  .  ." 

Monseigneur  caught  up  the  unfinished  caricature : 

"Look,  Mademoiselle!     This  is  he!" 

It  was  he.  ...  The  Assyrian  head,  great  torso,  and 
short  legs  had  been  grotesquely  exaggerated.  But  the  fe- 
rocity, sentimentality,  and  sensuality  mingling  in  the  ex- 
otic temperament  of  the  Roumanian,  had  been  conveyed 
with  a  mastery  of  technique  and  a  grasp  of  character  as- 
tonishing, considering  the  artist's  youth.  And  seeing, 
Juliette  recognized  the  man  they  had  encountered  in  the 
vestibule.  Just  as  he  had  passed  them,  Adelaide  had  cried 
out,  and  sunk  down  helplessly  in  a  genuine  swoon. 

"Ah,  yes,  Monseigneur,  I  have  seen  this  gentleman,  but 
a  few  moments  ago.  We  encountered  him  at  the  instant 
of  entering  the  house.  But  I  do  not  know  him — I  have 
never  before  met  him!  Why,  then,  should  M.  de  Straz 
speak  familiarly  of  me?" 

The  boy  said,  with  a  tactfulness  that  was  ingratiating: 

' '  Never  mind !  .  .  .  He  was  playing  some  stupid  trick ! 
.  .  .  He  shall  be  punished  if  he  offends  you.  See !  I  am 
tearing  up  the  ugly  picture!" 

"Oh,  Monseigneur!" 

She  was  too  late  to  save  the  drawing.  He  went  on,  toss- 
ing away  the  bits : 

"Meanwhile — since  the  sketch  I  meant  for  you  has  been 
given  to  this  person,  you  shall  have  my  shell-splinter, 
though  at  first  I  meant  it  for — Cavaignac. ' ' 

He  had  never  uttered  this  name,  about  which  so  many 
lonely  day-dreams  clung,  in  the  hearing  of  any  second  per- 
son. He  could  hardly  believe  that  he  had  done  so  now  as 
he  went  on : 

"Take  my  souvenir,  and  shut  your  hand  over  it,  and 
promise  me  you  will  never  part  with  it.  If  you  will,  I  can 
tell  you  about  Cavaignac — my  friend,  Mademoiselle!" 

She  complied  with  his  wish,  smiling  at  the  tone  of  au- 
thority. She  thought,  looking  in  the  beautiful  frank  blue 
eyes,  that  Cavaignac  must  be  proud  of  his  high  place  in 
this  princely  young  heart. 

"He  is  brave,  Mademoiselle,  and  handsome  and  wonder- 
fully clever.  Once  he  gained  the  second  prize  for  Greek 
translation  at  the  Concours  General.  And  Greek  is  hor- 
ribly difficult.  M.  Edeline  could  never  teach  it  me.  I  find 


478  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

the  grammar  so  dreadfully  dull!  And  yet  Alexander  the 
Great  was  a  Greek  general,  and  would  have  told  me  all 
about  his  campaigns  in  the  Greek  language.  ...  I  think 
I  must  find  it  hard  to  study  because  the  figures  of  people 
mean  more  to  me  than  letters  and  words !  .  .  .  I  like  better 
to  draw  caricatures  of  my  masters  than  to  listen  to  them ! ' ' 

Juliette  said,  with  something  maternal  in  her  accent: 

"That  is  unwise,  Monseigneur.  .  .  .  For  the  better  we 
learn,  the  sooner  we  part  with  the  teacher.  ,  do  not  we  ? " 

He  said,  in  a  tone  of  wounded  pride  rather  than  vanity : 

"I  have  always  attended  carefully  to  my  Military  Gov- 
ernor when  he  gave  us  lessons  in  scientific  warfare.  For  a 
Napoleon  must  always  be  a  soldier  and  a  strategist.  .  .  . 
Riding  came  easily — anybody  can  learn  to  ride  well!  .  .  . 
When  I  have  pleased  my  tutors  most,  my  reward  has  been 
— unless  it  was  in  July  or  August — a  day  with  the  stag- 
hounds  at  Fontainebleau,  or  St.  Germain  or  Compiegne. 
.  .  .  The  Emperor  has  given  me  two  magnificent  Irish 
hunters.  ..."  He  added  with  nai've  boyish  vanity : ' '  And 
the  uniform  of  our  Imperial  Hunt  is  splendid,  you  know. 
.  .  .  Gold-laced  cocked  hat  with  white  plumes,  green  coat 
with  crimson  velvet  facings,  white  leathers  and  jack-boots. 
Last  night  I  dreamed  I  was  hunting  with  Cavaignac  .  .  . 
the  brown  forest  flying  by  as  we  galloped  through  the 
frosty  fern.  .  .  .  The  sky  was  pale  red,  and  a  diamond 
star  hung  just  under  the  tip  of  the  new  moon  of  Novem- 
ber. We  were  foremost  of  all  when  the  stag  turned  to  bay 
at  the  Pools  of  Saint  Pierre.  .  .  .  Then  the  horns  sounded 
the  kallali,  the  Chief  Huntsman  offered  me  the  knife,  and 
I  said  to  him :  fM .  Leemans,  you  will  give  it  to  my  friend, 
M.  Cavaignac!'  .  .  ." 

"And  then,  Monseigneur?  ..." 

He  had  told  the  dream  with  unexpected  spirit  and  fire. 
That  gallop  through  the  wintry  forest-rides  had  been  stim- 
ulatingly  real  to  Juliette.  She  had  thrilled  as  the  hard- 
pressed  buck  had  leaped  into  the  pool,  and  turned  with 
antlers  lowered  against  the  ravening  jaws  of  the  pack. 
Now,  though  she  shrank  from  the  thought  of  the  spilled 
blood — she  wanted  to  hear  the  rest  of  it.  She  wished 
always  to  remember  this  story,  told  solely  for  her,  by  the 
son  of  her  Emperor.  .  .  . 

' '  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  The  end  is  not  as  nice  as  the  begin- 
ning or  the  middle.  ..."  He  hesitated,  frowning  a  little, 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  479 

then  took  up  the  broken  thread:  "I  thought  I  took  the 
knife  and  held  it  out  to  him,  and  he  suddenly  snatched  it 
and  I  felt  the  blade  pierce  my  heart  right  through.  .  .  . 
He  said,  with  his  dark,  bright  eyes  on  mine:  'Son  of  my 
father's  enemyi,  I  slay  despots,  not  animals!'  .  .  .  And  I 
felt  the  hot  blood  bubbling  in  my  throat  as  I  answered: 
'You  have  killed  a  great  faith  and  a  great  love!'  ' 

It  was  rhetoric  of  a  bombastic,  youthful  kind,  but  not 
without  pathos.  His  lips  quivered.  He  nipped  them  to- 
gether, and  blinked  away  the  stinging  salt  moisture  that 
had  risen  in  his  bright  eyes.  Juliette  said,  aching  to  con- 
sole him: 

"Dreams  go  by  contraries,  according  to  my  schoolmates 
of  the  Convent.  Your  friendship  with  M.  Cavaignac  will 
not  be  severed  by  the  blade  of  a  hunting-knife." 

He  shook  his  head. 

' '  Or  rather  it  is  by  my  hand  that  the  stab  will  be  given. 
.  .  .  Yet  how  could  that  be,  when  I  like  him  so  very,  very 
much?  ...  Is  it  not  strange,  I  have  never  spoken  to 
Cavaignac,  and  yet  I  would  have  chosen  him  for  my  com- 
panion above  all  others,  before  even  Espinasse  or  Chino 
Murat!  .  .  ." 

"I  think  I  understand  ..."  Juliette  said,  feeling  the 
tug  of  his  craving  for  affection  and  sympathy,  realizing  the 
loneliness  that  had  found  relief  in  hero-worship,  and 
heartily  pitying  her  Emperor's  son.  "When  the  heart 
speaks,  one  cannot  shut  one's  ears;  one  must  listen  al- 
ways. .  .  .  Among  hundreds  of  faces  there  is  one  that 
paints  itself  upon  the  memory  .  .  .  there  is  one  voice  that 
makes  good  music  when  others  only  tire  the  ear.  .  .  . 
There  is  one  nature  that  seems  more  open,  fresh,  and  can- 
did than  others.  .  .  .  Without  knowing  that  you  do  so, 
you  continually  compare  it  with  them.  .  .  .  And  when 
you  are  sad  or  lonely,  you  would  wish  that  person  to  be 
near  you.  .  .  .  You  remember  his  gray  eyes  with  specks 
of  brown  and  golden  in  them,  and  the  curly  hair,  and  the 
pleasant  lips.  You  regret  that  when  you  met  him  you 
were  not  more  charming,  more  amiable.  .  .  .  You  feel 
chagrin  to  remember  that  you  were  neither  of  these  things. 
.  .  .  You  would  like  to  hold  out  the  hand  as  they  do  in 
England,  and  say,  'Pardon,  pardon,  that  I  misunderstood 
you,  my  friend  ! '  : 

The  boy's  blue  eyes  rounded.    His  fair  brows  puckered 


480 

in  perplexity.  Too  well-bred  to  interrupt,  he  listened  with 
increasing  surprise. 

' '  Pardon  that  I  regarded  you  as  a  brusque,  untidy  boy, 
when  you  had  been  robbed,  and  were  homeless,  and  suf- 
fering from  hunger.  For  Monica's  sake,  you  hid  it.  And 
I  applaud  that  noble  silence !  I  admire  you  with  all  my 
heart!  .  .  ." 

The  Prince  broke  in: 

"But  Cavaignac  has  not  been  robbed,  and  who  ever  said 
he  was  hungry?  He  lives  with  Madame,  his  mother  .  .  . 
they  are  not  rich,  certainly!  As  Madame  is  a  widow  and 
he  an  only  son,  he  is  exempt  from  military  service.  He  is 
to  embrace  the  profession  of  Literature — he  will  write 
great  books  or  great  plays,  or  edit  a  newspaper.  .  .  .  And 
I  would  like  to  help  'him  to  climb  to  the  very  top  of  the 
ladder.  .  .  .  Secretly — because  he  would  never  accept  any- 
thing that  came  from  me!  ...  Am  I  stupid,  Mademoi- 
selle?" 

She  said  with  warmth  that  covered  a  slight  confusion, 
caused  by  that  slip  of  the  tongue  an  instant  before : 

' '  Ah,  no,  indeed !  but  very  kind  and  generous.  Perhaps, 
if  it  were  possible,  M.  Cavaignac  would  be  proud  and  glad 
to  know  you  were  his  friend.  It  may  be  that  the  affection 
he  inspires  in  you,  he  returns,  though  he  does  not  own  it. 
There  can  be  no  harm  in  thinking  this,  at  least ! ' ' 

The  Prince  said,  with  animation : 

LVI 

"I  SAW  him,  I  am  convinced,  when  we  left  Saint-Cloud, 
outside  the  station  near  the  Gate  of  Orleans.  He  stood 
apart  from  the  soldiers  and  the  people.  .  .  .  He  was  all  in 
black,  and  had  grown  older  and  taller.  He  looked  at  me 
earnestly,  and  slightly  raised  his  hat  as  the  carriage  drove 
up.  I  saluted  in  answer,  and  the  Empress  asked  me :  '  Who 
is  that  grave  young  man?  Do  you  know  him?'  I  said: 
*My  mother,  I  have  never  spoken  to  him  in  my  life!'  .  .  . 
You  would  have  thought  the  Empress  very  brave,  if  you 
had  seen  her,  Mademoiselle.  Nobody  could  have  guessed 
she  had  been  weeping.  Though  the  night  before  we  left 
for  Metz  .  .  .  when  she  came  to  me  in  my  bed  ..." 

His  lips  twitched,  and  one  big  tear  brimmed  over  and 
splashed  on  the  sleeve  of  his  piou-piou's  uniform.  He 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  481 

flushed  bright  red,  and  whisked  it  off  as  though  it  were  a 
wasp  that  would  have  stung. 

"She  brought  me  a  new  medal  to  hang  on  the  collar  I 
wear  always. ' '  He  slid  a  finger  inside  the  edge  of  his  stiff 
military  stock,  and  hooked  up  an  inch  of  gold  chain.  "It 
has  on  one  side  a  figure  of  Our  Blessed  Lady  crushing  the 
head  of  the  serpent,  and  on  the  other  there  is  the  Cross 
with  two  hearts.  The  Holy  Father  has  blessed  it;  it  was 
sent  to  Rome  purposely.  .  .  .  Mothers  are  anxious  when 
their  sons  are  called  upon  Active  Service.  ...  It  is  nat- 
ural, is  it  not  ? ' ' 

Juliette 's  eyes  were  wet  with  pity  for  the  Empress.  She 
bent  her  head  in  assent.  The  boy*went  on,  shrugging  his 
slender  shoulders: 

"For  me — I  like  better  to  have  soldiers  about  me  than  a 
lot  of  people  in  embroidered  tail-coats.  If  I  had  been 
twenty,  I  should  have  been  at  Worth  with  the  Duke  of 
Magenta.  ...  I  would  have  died  at  the  head  of  my 
troops  rather  than  have  consented  to  that  shameful  re- 
treat. .  .  .  'Over  my  body!'  .  .  .  that  is  what  I  would 
have  said  to  them.  .  .  .  'Do  you  wish  me  to  dishonor  the 
blood  of  Napoleon  the  Great?'  ' 

He  crossed  to  the  fireplace  and  stood  upon  the  Turkey 
hearthrug,  a  boyish  figure  reflected  in  the  great  Venetian 
mirror  that  hung  above  the  carved  stone  mantelpiece. 
The  outpouring  had  relieved  the  nervous  tension;  the  red 
flush  had  died  out  of  his  fair  temples,  the  smooth  forehead 
was  no  longer  disfigured  with  a  scowl. 

"  If  I  might  only  have  remained  with  the  Army  at  Metz, 
I  would  have  asked  nothing  better.  But  instead  of  stay- 
ing to  fight  the  Prussians,  we  drove  away  when  they  came 
in  sight.  It  was  ignominious.  ...  It  made  me  feel  hor- 
ribly! .  .  .  And  the  Emperor  would  not  show  it,  but  I 
know  he  suffered,  too.  Then  the  camp  was  beastly.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  pretense  of  discipline.  Their  officers  could 
hardly  restrain  the  mobilists.  There  was  even  mutiny 
among  those  who  had  returned  from  Alsace-Lorraine — the 
Algerian  troops  of  the  Army  of  MacMahon!" 

His  agitation  made  him  stutter  as  the  words  came  pour- 
ing from  him. 

' '  They  wanted  to  be  led  once  more  against  the  Germans ! 
— to  be  avenged  for  all  their  losses  and  misfortunes!  .  .  . 
I  understood  why  they  were  difficult.  .  .  .  They  did  not 


482  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

understand  why  we  did  not  march  at  once  to  the  northeast 
frontier.  No  more  did  I.  ...  I  was  unreasonable,  like 
them!  But  now  we  are  advancing — soon,  soon,  you  will 
hear  something!  .  .  .  We  will  effect  a  junction  of  our 
Army  with  M.  de  Bazaine's,  and  sweep  the  Prussians  out 
of  France!" 

He  was  walking  up  and  down,  swinging  his  arms,  ges- 
ticulating, grinding  his  heels  into  the  arabesques  of  the 
Aubusson  carpet  at  every  turn. 

"Then  there  will  be  great  popular  rejoicings — the  Em- 
peror will  receive  his  due — there  will  be  no  more  misunder- 
standings. For  the  Emperor  is  terribly  misunderstood, 
Mademoiselle,  and  he  is  no  longer  young  or  strong.  .  .  . 
He  has  so  many  bitter  enemies.  ...  I  have  heard  him  say 
so,  weeping — the  Emperor,  Mademoiselle!  ..." 

11  Oh,  hush,  Monseigneur ! " 

But  he  did  not  heed  Juliette 's  entreaty. 

"I  have  heard  him  crying  out  to  God  in  his  room  at 
midnight,  when  he  thought  everyone  was  asleep,  and  he 
was  quite  alone:  'My  God!  is  this  the  beginning  of  the 
punishment?  Must  the  price  of  my  success  be  ruin,  de- 
feat, disgrace!'  .  .  .  Then  I  stole  away  and  made  a  prayer 
for  him  and  for  myself,  Mademoiselle.  ...  I  say  it  regu- 
larly every  night  since  then." 

His  boyish  pompousness,  pride,  and  vanity  had  fallen 
from  him  like  a  tinsel  diadem.  Chivalry  and  loyalty,  un- 
selfishness and  devotion  shone  from  and  irradiated  the 
child. 

"  'My  God,  if  Thou  dost  save  up  happiness  for  me,  I 
pray  Thee  to  take  it  away,  and  give  it  to  my  father,  who 
needs  it  so  badly.  .  .  .  And,  my  God,  if  Thou  indeed  art 
angry  with  him,  I  beseech  Thee  to  grant  him  Thy  pardon, 
and  punish  me,  instead.  All  I  ask  Thee  for  myself  is  that 
I  may  know  Thy  Will,  and  obey  It,  that  I  may  do  my  duty 
bravely,  and  die  when  the  end  of  my  life  comes  without 
dishonor  and  without  fear!'  Is  that  a  good  prayer,  do 
you  think,  Mademoiselle?" 

Before  she  could  command  herself  sufficiently  to  answer, 
there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  equerry  came  in. 
He  looked  eager  and  vexed,  excited  and  disappointed. 
Varying  emotions  seemed  to  clash  in  him.  But  he  said, 
smiling  and  saluting  as  the  Prince  turned  toward  him: 

"The  ten  minutes  are  over,  Monseigneur!" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  483 

"Ten  minutes  ago,  Monsieur,  to  speak  correctly,"  said 
Monseigneur,  with  a  mischievous  look.  Then  his  face 
changed.  "News!"  he  called  out  eagerly.  "You  have 
dispatches  from  the  Emperor!  .  .  .  Don't  play  a  farce 
with  me,  Count,  I  beg  of  you!  when  there  is  the  telegram 
sticking  out  of  your  cuff ! ' ' 

And  with  the  nimbleness  of  a  gamin  and  the  audacity  of 
a  spoiled  princeling,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  equerry 
and  captured  the  prize. 

"From  the  Emperor  at  Rheims — no!  don't  retire, 
Mademoiselle!  You  are  discreet — not  like  women  who 
talk!  .  .  .  You  shall  share  my  good  news  with  me.  .  .  . 
He  says:  'There  has  been  furious  fighting  at  Mars  la  Tour. 
Battles  are  raging  at  Flauville,  Flavigny,  and  Vionville. 
The  Prince  will  remain  for  the  present  at  Bethel,  where  the 
Emperor  will  rejoin  him  on  the  21th.  As  it  is  not  consid- 
ered advisable  to  effect  a  junction  with  Bazaine,  the  march 
of  the  Army  of  Chalons  is  directed  upon  Sedan.'  ' 

The  mischief  died  out  of  the  dancing  eyes,  the  mobile 
face  whitened  with  disappointment.  He  repeated,  staring 
blankly  at  the  paper: 

"For  what  did  we  leave  Chalons,  if  not  to  assist  Ba- 
zaine? .  .  .  Mon  Dieu!  .  .  .  What  infamy!  .  .  .  Why 
am  I  not  a  man  ? ' ' 

He  grew  crimson  and  burst  into  a  tempest  of  sobbing. 
He  tore  the  pale  green  paper  into  fragments  and  trampled 
them  beneath  his  feet.  His  eyes  blazed  through  the  tears 
that  streamed  from  them  as  he  stammered  between  his 
gasps  and  chokings: 

"Cowards!  .  .  .  Traitors!  .  .  .  Disgraced  forever! 
...  Is  there  no  honor  left  in  France  ? ' ' 

"Come,  Mademoiselle,  in  pity!"  entreated  the  equerry, 
as  deadly  pale  as  Monseigneur  was  red.  He  held  open  the 
door  with  a  shaking  hand,  and  Juliette  hurriedly  quitted 
the  drawing-room.  The  door  shut  upon  the  sobs  and  out- 
cries. The  Count  said,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  wiping  the 
perspiration  from  his  face: 

"You  will  not  speak  of  this?  His  Imperial  Highness  is 
overwrought  and  excited.  It  will  pass  presently.  Let  me 
conduct  you  downstairs ! ' ' 

The  hall  of  the  Prefecture  reached,  a  servant  in  the  liv- 
ery of  the  establishment  approached  the  equerry.  It  ap- 
peared that  the  lady  who  had  accompanied  Mademoiselle 


484  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

had  recovered  from  her  indisposition,  and  departed,  leav- 
ing no  message  for  her  young  friend. 

"Madame  will  have  returned  to  her  hotel,"  said  the 
equerry.  He  added:  "By  chance,  Mademoiselle,  the  dis- 
patches we  have  just  received  contain  proof  that  your 
friend  has  been  misled  by  false  intelligence.  Colonel  le 
Bayard  has  not  been  taken  prisoner.  He  is  now  in  com- 
mand of  his  regiment  with  the  First  Brigade  of  Cavalry 
of  General  Clerambault's  Division,  now  engaged  with  the 
Third  Corps  in  the  neighborhood  of  Metz." 

Then  as  Juliette  turned  red  and  pale,  and  looked  at  him 
in  breathless  questioning,  he  added,  pulling  a  vestibule- 
chair  from  its  place  near  the  wainscot  and  making  her  sit 
down: 

"Best  there  one  moment.  ...  I  will  speak  to  Colonel 
iWatrin.  He  is  now  at  mess  with  his  officers  in  the  Pre- 
fect 's  billiard-room. ' ' 

Watrin  of  the  Bodyguard,  Chief  of  the  Prince  Imperial 's 
escort,  came  clanking  and  jingling  from  his  dinner  to  con- 
firm the  fact  as  stated  by  the  equerry.  The  777th  Chas- 
seurs, belonging  to  de  Clerambault's  Division  of  the  Third 
Corps  of  the  Army  of  Bazaine,  were  certainly  now  engaged 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Gravelotte.  But  as  certainly  they 
had  not  come  into  contact  with  the  enemy  previously  to 
the  fifteenth  of  the  month. 

The  fifteenth! — the  very  day  on  which  Adelaide  had 
baited  her  trap  with  an  imprisoned  father.  .  .  .  Joy  at 
the  discovery,  indignation  at  having  been  so  easily  cajoled 
into  captivity,  brought  back  the  red  to  Juliette's  pale 
cheeks  and  the  light  to  her  sad  eyes. 

This  strange,  wayward,  mysterious  mother  might  exer- 
cise over  her  daughter  a  certain  degree  of  maternal  au- 
thority. The  supreme  obedience,  the  first  duty  was  to  the 
father,  that  was  clear.  Now  she  was  going  straight  to 
him,  wherever  he  might  be.  She  was  strong  enough,  for 
his  dear  sake,  to  take  whatever  risks  were  involved. 

Suppose  Adelaide  insisted  on  accompanying  her?  It 
was  unthinkable  that  even  so  hardy  an  offender  should 
venture  into  the  presence  of  one  so  wronged.  .  .  .  Meet 
his  look!  .  .  .  Read  in  his  face  his  scorn  of  perfidy! 
Juliette  put  away  the  possibility  from  her  with  both  hands. 

We  know  that  Madame  Adelaide  had  contemplated  this 
very  move  upon  occasion.  But  she  had  not  met  Made- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  485 

moiselle  de  Bayard  then.  Since  the  encounter  had  taken 
place  she  had  realized  that  the  establishment  of  maternal 
influence,  strong  enough  to  make  of  her  daughter  a  confed- 
erate and  ally,  was  a  task  beyond  her  powers. 

Her  grace,  her  charm,  were  lost  upon  this  pale,  frigid, 
obstinate  little  being,  in  whom  she  saw  her  mother-in-law 
over  again.  For  than  this  girl,  sprung  of  her  own  flesh, 
whose  veins  were  filled  with  her  blood,  nothing  could  be 
more  unlike  Adelaide,  that  magnificent  creature  of  impulses 
and  desires  and  appetites.  .  .  . 

Dominion  over  de  Bayard  could  never  be  regained  and 
established  'while  his  daughter  sat  by  his  hearth  a  virgin 
unwed.  Why  had  Adelaide  hindered  her  marriage  to  M. 
Tessier?  Pacing  the  Turkey  carpet  of  the  Prefect's  li- 
brary, Madame  admitted  that  she  had  acted  inadvisedly. 
That  the  plan  of  bringing  Juliette  into  contact  with  the 
Prince  Imperial  would  be  discounted  by  the  innocence  of 
the  girl  and  the  inexperience  of  the  boy. 

She  could  imagine  the  dialogue  they  were  holding  at  that 
moment,  all,  "Oh,  Mademoiselle!"  and  "Ah,  Monsei- 
gneur!"  .  .  .  The  girl  should  have  been  permitted  to  cele- 
brate her  nuptials  with  this  dull  young  husband  of  her 
father 's  choosing.  .  .  .  Then  a  few  years  later  would  have 
come  the  opportunity.  She  ground  her  teeth,  thinking 
how  her  precipitation  had  spoiled  everything  .  .  .  thrust 
her.  .  .  .  Ah,  Heaven!  how  one  shuddered  at  the  recol- 
lection, almost  into  the  clutches  of  the  Wielder  of  the  Bow- 
string, the  ingenious  inventor  of  the  Ordeal  of  the  Looking- 
Glass.  .  .  . 

Straz.  ...  At  the  sight  of  him  her  heart  had  stopped 
beating.  In  imagination  those  strangling  silken  folds  had 
closed,  shutting  out  light  and  breath.  .  .  . 

How  he  had  leered,  rolling  those  fierce  black  eyes  of  his. 
"So,"  his  jeering  smile  had  said,  "my  Sultana  and  her 
slave  have  met  again.  Did  I  not  prophesy  truly,  sweet 
one,  tell  me?  when  I  said  you  would  never  again  look  in 
your  toilette-mirror  without  remembering  me!" 

Her  nerves  were  raveled  to  threads — her  will  was  weak- 
ening. .  .  .  Despite  her  hatred  and  her  overwhelming 
fear  of  the  man,  she  knew  that  he  was  her  master.  That 
if  he  fixed  those  eyes  upon  her  and  beckoned  Come!  she 
would  have  to  obey.  .  .  . 

Was  he  still  here?    The  book-lined  walls  seemed  closing 


486  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

in  on  her.  The  atmosphere  was  suffocating  .  .  .  she  must 
escape  from  this  place  or  go  mad. 

The  Prefect's  wife  had  been  called  away,  after  kindly 
ministrations  with  smelling-salts  and  red  lavender.  Ade- 
laide opened  the  library  door  a  little  way,  and  looked 
forth  cautiously.  Except  the  two  Cent  Gardes  on  duty  at 
the  foot  of  the  principal  staircase,  there  was  nobody 
stirring  in  the  hall  or  vestibule. 

As  she  told  herself  so,  a  red  baize-covered  door  at  a 
flagged  rear  passage-end  was  opened.  The  Prince 's  equerry 
came  out  with  the  Chief  of  the  Bodyguard,  an  oblong  pale 
green  paper  was  in  the  equerry's  hand.  Both  officers'  faces 
were  pale.  Colonel  Watrin's  was  livid  and  distorted  with 
emotion.  He  said  to  his  companion  in  a  low  voice,  and 
with  a  despairing  gesture : 

' '  It  needed  but  this  to  hasten  the  catastrophe !  .  .  .  All 
is  over !  .  .  .  The  Empire  is  lost ! ' ' 

Then  he  went  back.  The  red  baize  door  shut  upon  him. 
The  equerry  came  through  the  passage,  entered  the  hall, 
and  went  quickly  up  the  stairs.  He  was  going  to  break  to 
the  Emperor's  son  the  news  of  some  terrible  disaster  .  .  . 
to  say  to  him,  as  Watrin  had  said:  "All  is  over!  .  .  .  The 
Empire  is  lost!" 

With  all  a  woman's  intuition,  Adelaide  leaped  at  the 
truth  and  comprehended  the  situation.  What  did  she  in 
the  galley  of  a  ruined,  sinking  Empire  ?  What  advantage 
was  to  be  gained  by  reconciliation  with  Henri  de  Bayard 
now?  And  with  Straz  in  the  neighborhood,  what  madness 
to  remain  here.  .  .  . 

As  for  the  girl,  she  was  possessed  of  money.  Let  her 
go  to  her  father,  or  to  her  friends,  or  elsewhere.  .  .  . 

So  Adelaide  went  out  into  the  hall,  still  haunted  by 
horrible  memories  of  the  Roumanian.  She  found  the  por- 
ter. He  hailed  her  fiacre  from  its  waiting-place.  Madame 
stepped  in  gracefully,  and  was  jingled  away,  straight  into 
the  jaws  of  Straz ! 

"Mademoiselle  is  courageous,"  commented  the  Chief  of 
the  Escort  when  Juliette's  determination  to  seek  the  shel- 
ter of  her  Colonel  shaped  itself  in  a  request  for  a  military 
pass,  a  thing  without  which  nobody  could  penetrate  the 
immediate  area  where  the  dreadful  thing  called  War  was 
actually  going  on.  The  speaker  resumed: 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  487 

"The  Cavalry  Camp  of  the  Third  Corps  is  at  present  at 
Chatel  St.  Germain.  .  .  .  Provided  Mademoiselle  gets  there 
without  accident,  and  can  endure  the  noise  of  the  bom- 
bardments— Mademoiselle  may  be  quite  as  safe" — he 
shrugged  and  twirled  his  imperial — "there  as  anywhere 
else!  .  .  ." 

A  little  vague,  more  than  a  little  doubtful,  considering 
the  huge  conflict  then  waging,  that  was  to  wage  until 
nightfall  of  the  morrow,  between  the  Imperial  Army  of 
Metz  and  the  First  and  Second  Armies  of  Germany.  But 
the  permit  was  written  and  signed  with  a  flourish,  and 
gracefully  handed  over  to  the  keeping  of  Mademoiselle. 
Then  she  thanked  Colonel  Watrin  and  went  away,  declin- 
ing the  attendance  of  the  servant  whom  the  officer  would 
have  sent  with  her,  and  descended  the  steps  of  the  Pre- 
fecture under  the  raking  eyes  of  the  crowd.  .  .  . 

For,  owing  to  a  mysterious  leakage  in  Imperial  dis- 
patches, something  approaching  to  a  panic  was  brewing, 
.  .  .  The  Place  of  the  Prefecture  was  packed  with  people 
.  .  .  the  news  of  the  frightful  struggle  near  Metz  was 
buzzing  from  mouth  to  mouth.  It  was  whispered  that  de- 
feat was  certain,  that  M.  de  Bismarck  had  a  secret  under- 
standing with  M.  de  Bazaine.  .  .  .  Later  on,  when  peas- 
ants who  had  hurried  in  from  villages  on  the  outskirts, 
stragglers  who  had  quitted  the  Army  at  the  commencement 
of  its  misfortunes,  soldiers  who  had  deserted  from  the 
Colors  in  action,  came  flocking  into  the  town;  despite  the 
presence  of  the  Bodyguard  and  the  gendarmerie,  and  the 
local  Fire-Brigade,  an  attack  upon  the  Imperial  party  at 
the  Prefecture  was  anticipated ;  so  threatening  became  the 
attitude  of  the  people,  egged  on  by  those  among  them  who 
were  agents  and  spies  of  the  enemy. 

Perhaps  the  arrival  of  the  Emperor  would  throw  oil  upon 
the  troubled  waters.  Perhaps  it  would  be  wiser  to  warn 
him  not  to  come.  Well  might  the  officers  who  guarded  the 
person  of  the  Heir  of  a  crumbling  Empire  groan  under  the 
burden  of  their  responsibilities.  "Well  might  the  Prefect 
perspire,  to  the  ruin  of  his  collars  and  cravats. 

It  may  be  imagined  that  the  lack  of  Adelaide's  company 
did  not  greatly  depress  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard,  as,  cheered 
by  her  interview  and  armed  with  her  permit,  she  tripped 


488  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

through  the  crowded  streets  to  the  Hotel  of  the  Crown, 
where  they  had  spent  the  previous  night. 

"Madame  had  already  returned,"  said  the  respectable 
Frenchwoman  in  charge  of  the  bureau.  "She  gave  notice 
of  departure,  and  asked  for  the  account.  Then  the  gentle- 
man arrived — a  handsome  man  with  splendid  eyes,  brilliant 
as  carbuncles,  and  hair  and  beard — my  faith!  what  hair 
and  what  a  beard!  Madame  cried  out  with  ravishment 
upon  his  entrance,  for  he  would  not  be  announced — he 
went  up  at  once.  Possibly  it  was  Madame 's  husband,  or 
some  near  relative?" 

Juliette  made  some  ambiguous  reply  to  the  question. 
She  was  intent  upon  the  problem  of  rescuing  her  traveling- 
bag.  "Without  money  one  could  not  reach  Chatel  St.  Ger- 
main, and  in  the  bag  was  her  little  store  of  cash.  Trem- 
bling, she  crept  upstairs  to  the  room  she  had  slept  in,  a 
dressing  or  maid's  apartment,  opening  out  of  Madame 's. 
The  discovery  that  the  door  was  locked  and  the  key  in 
Adelaide's  possession  was  appalling.  She  was  delivered 
from  the  dilemma  by  a  chambermaid  with  a  master-key. 
As  she  stole  in  and  seized  her  bag  she  heard  voices  in  the 
next  room.  Certainly  one  was  Adelaide's  and  the  other 
male.  A  thickish  voice,  speaking  with  a  drawl  and  a  muf- 
fled softness  that  somehow  recalled  the  Assyrian  hawk- 
features  and  fierce  black  eyes  of  Straz. 

"When  the  little  Queen  of  Diamonds  comes,"  the  voice 
said,  "you  shall  present  rue!"  And  a  chuckle  followed  on 
the  words  that  made  her  cold.  Fortunately,  some  noise 
in  the  corridor  covered  her  retreat  with  her  rescued  prop- 
erty, and  facilitated  her  departure  unobserved  from  the 
Hotel  of  the  Crown.  .  .  . 

The  station  was  near  enough  to  be  reached  in  a  few 
minutes.  She  learned  there  that  a  train  would  leave  in  ten 
minutes  for  Verdun.  At  Verdun  she  would  have  to  change, 
provided  the  branch-line  trains  were  running,  or  proceed 
to  Chatel  St.  Germain  by  road. 

Those  ten  minutes  expanded  into  hours  as  the  girl  sat 
in  the  dirty  station,  waiting.  She  was  escaping  from  even 
greater  perils  than  she  had  feared,  and  yet  when  she  found 
herself  actually  in  the  train,  and  the  train  moving  out  of 
Rethel,  she  knew  a  moment  of  passionate  regret. 

She  had  been  so  happy  there.  .  .  .  She  would  never 
forget,  even  though  she  lived  to  be  an  old,  old  woman,  that 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  489 

half -hour  spent  in  easy,  confidential  talk  with  her  Imperial 
Prince. 

The  littered  third-class  carriage  expanded,  became  the 
formal  drawing-room  of  the  Prefecture.  .  .  .  Lingeringly 
Mademoiselle  went  over  the  interview,  and  the  parting — 
ah,  me!  there  had  been  no  farewell!  .  .  .  And  yet,  upon 
the  step  of  departure,  standing  upon  the  muddy  curbstone 
of  the  Place,  full  of  soldiers  and  scowling  people,  she  had 
looked  wistfully  up  at  the  row  of  four  big  round-topped 
shining  windows  on  the  balconied  first  floor  of  the  Pre- 
fecture and  seen  .  .  . 

Only  a  boy's  face,  blurred  and  stained  with  crying. 
Only  a  boy's  hand,  waved  behind  the  pane.  As  she  whis- 
pered "Adieu!"  looking  up  at  him  with  passionate  love 
and  loyalty,  she  wondered  if  ever  they  two  would  meet  on 
earth  again. 

It  was  to  be  never  again  for  the  boy  and  girl  whose 
chivalrous  and  noble  natures  had  struck  out,  at  first  meet- 
ing, the  white  spark  that  kindles  to  Friendship's  sacred 
flame. 

What  misfortunes  were  coming,  thick  and  fast,  upon  the 
luckless  child  of  the  Empire !  .  .  .  What  a  cup  of  dreadful 
judgment  was  to  be  offered  to  those  guiltless  lips!  .  .  . 

So  young,  so  noble,  so  unfortunate !  The  pity  of  it !  .  .  . 
He  who  might  have  breathed  new  life  into  the  dry  bones 
of  the  Napoleonic  Legend,  and  given  France  an  Emperor 
without  fear  and  without  reproach. 

What  a  string  of  waking  nightmares,  the  days  that  were 
to  follow!  .  .  .  That  journey  by  road  to  Mezieres  .  .  . 
that  brief  sojourn  at  Sedan.  The  sudden  flight  to  Avesnes, 
where  the  guns  could  be  heard  thundering,  betokening  the 
defeat  of  a  demoralized,  dejected  army,  conquered  almost 
before  the  shock  of  battle,  paralyzed  by  the  premonition  of 
inevitable  disaster,  as  much  as  by  the  perfect  preparedness, 
the  masterly  strategy,  and  the  overwhelming  numbers  of 
the  enemy.  .  .  . 

From  Landrecies  to  Maubeuge  follow  the  boy  sorrow- 
fully. .  .  . 

What  an  hour  was  that  when  his  protectors  stripped  him 
of  his  darling  uniform,  dressed  him  in  civilian  garments, 
took  him  out  by  the  hotel  back-door,  and  smuggled  him  into 
the  omnibus  that  was  to  convey  him  to  Belgian  ground. 


490  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

His  father  a  prisoner,  his  mother  a  fugitive,  crowds 
hustling  him  in  their  curiosity  to  see  the  son  of  the  toppled 
Napoleon,  what  wonder  that  the  memory  of  that  journey 
haunted  him  his  brief  life  long. 

He  was  to  attain  manhood  in  exile.  Transplanted  to  the 
soil  of  a  foreign  country,  he  was  to  develop  into  the  beau- 
ideal  of  a  youthful  King  among  men.  High-minded,  pure- 
hearted,  excelling  in  manly  sports  and  martial  exercises, 
the  soul  of  honor,  the  fine  flower  of  French  chivalry.  And 
in  the  spring  of  his  manhood  he  was  to  die  by  the  assegais 
of  savage  warriors,  leaving  nothing  behind  him  but  the 
broken  heart  of  a  mother,  some  fragrant  memories,  and  the 
undying  story  of  that  lion's  life-and-death  fight  among  the 
trodden  grasses  on  the  banks  of  the  Imbazani. 


LVII 

FOLLOWING  the  devious  route  of  narrow  paths  by  which 
the  peasant  had  guided  them,  P.  C.  Breagh  made  his  way 
back  to  the  battle-ground  between  the  Bois  de  Vionville  and 
the  Bois  de  Gaumont. 

Prussian  spade-parties  had  made  good  progress  during 
the  three  hours  of  his  absence.  Part  of  the  field  had  been 
cleared,  long  parallel  trenches  dug  at  twelve- foot  intervals 
in  the  soft,  soaked  ground,  and  German  bodies  decently 
interred  therein.  Huge  canvas  sacks  crammed  with 
identification-tags,  papers  and  purses  removed  from  these 
stood  ready  to  be  carted  away.  Volunteers  and  Red  Cross 
helpers  had  rendered  like  services  to  dead  Frenchmen. 
And  at  the  head  of  a  trench,  marked  by  a  board  on  which 
was  chalked  in  awkward  letters: 

' '  CHASSEUES  OF  HORSE  OF  THE  IMPERIAL  GUARD. 
OFFICERS,   6  ; 
TROOPS,  200." 

a  single  widish  grave  had  been  dug,  in  which  had  been 
deposited  the  body  of  de  Bayard. 

The  place  was  marked  by  a  cross  made  of  the  broken 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  491 

halves  of  a  Uhlan  lance  lashed  with  a  fragment  of  cavalry 
picket-rope.  About  the  cross  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard's 
veil  had  been  loosely  tied,  and  the  vertical  shaft  topped, 
grimly  enough,  with  M.  le  Colonel's  talpack.  None  of  the 
heavy  clay  soil  had  been  thrown  back.  "Waiting  some  hand 
to  draw  Earth's  rude  coverlet  charitably  over  him,  de  Bay- 
ard lay,  staring  back  in  the  brazen  face  of  the  sun. 

His  green  silver-braided  dolman  had  been  torn  open — 
the  blood-drenched  ceinture  cut,  showing  the  mortal  lance- 
thrust.  The  red,  silver-striped  pantaloons  had  been  slashed 
at  the  hips,  no  doubt  in  search  of  pocket-book  and  purse. 
It  was  difficult  to  credit  that  the  sternly  extended  right 
arm,  and  the  determined  frown  graven  deep  between  the 
eyebrows,  did  not  mean  that  Life  was  extinct,  but  merely 
in  abeyance ;  that  the  cold  glitter  of  the  bold  dark  eyes  and 
the  grim  setting  of  the  pale  mouth  under  the  martial  mus- 
tache would  not  warm  and  soften  and  relax  into  a 
smile. 

He  was  so  disdainful  in  his  rigid  silence,  so  much  a  chief 
of  men,  even  in  death,  that  the  disheveled  scallawag  who 
dared  to  love  his  daughter  winced  at  the  cold  stare  of  those 
dark,  glittering  eyes.  But  for  Juliette's  sake  P.  C.  Breagh 
nerved  himself  to  the  sticking  point — got  down  into  the 
squashy  clay  beside  de  Bayard,  and  took  his  medals,  and 
Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  giving  him  Juliette 's  Rosary 
instead. 

' '  You  know,  sir,  I  don 't  intend  to  take  a  liberty, ' '  he  felt 
like  saying:  "I'm  only  carrying  out  what  I've  given  my 
word  to  do.  If  I  'm  not  quite  up  to  your  mark,  please  over- 
look it!  As  to  being  worthy  of  her — is  any  man  breath- 
ing? Ask  yourself  the  question,  and  the  answer  will  be 
No.  .  .  ." 

Save  the  Algerian,  Crimean  and  Sardinian  medals,  and 
the  Cross,  nothing  of  value  remained  upon  the  Colonel.  .  .  . 

Some  soldier  having  left  a  spade  sticking  in  the  clay  at 
the  head  of  an  unfinished  trench,  P.  C.  Breagh  possessed 
himself  of  the  utensil,  and  began  to  fill  the  grave  in,  though 
the  dead  face  looked  at  him  so  haughtily  that  until  he  had 
covered  it  with  the  black  silk  veil,  he  boggled  hideously  at 
the  task. 

"Winking  away  the  tears  that  blinded  him,  and  gulping 
down  the  lump  that  stuck  in  his  throat,  he  finished.  Re- 
mained but  the  need  of  a  Catholic  priest  to  read  the  Office. 


492  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

You  saw  the  caped  cloak,  and  the  broad-brimmed  hat,  or  the 
cossack  and  biretta  of  the  Roman  ecclesiastic,  working  side 
by  side  with  the  Jewish  rabbi,  the  English  Protestant 
clergyman,  and  the  Lutheran  pastor,  in  these  harvest-fields 
of  death.  The  secular  priest  and  the  tonsured  religious 
were  to  be  found  with  the  Red  Cross  Ambulance-trains  and 
in  the  temporary  hospitals;  doing  their  best  for  the  souls 
and  bodies  of  their  broken  fellow-men,  now  that  War  had 
done  the  worst. 

To  whom  should  one  appeal?  Hardly  to  the  burly, 
bearded  Franciscan,  who  passed  supporting  a  laden  double- 
stretcher  at  the  upper  end.  You  saw  his  brown  robe 
hitched  up  under  his  white  girdle,  and  his  muscular  bare 
legs,  ending  in  boots  of  the  elastic-sided  description,  stained 
as  though  he  had  been  treading  out  ripe  grapes  in  the 
press.  An  Army  chaplain  succeeded  the  monk,  upright  and 
thin,  in  a  dark  military  frock  and  black-banded  forage-cap, 
half  leading,  half  carrying  a  French  corporal  of  infantry, 
who  had  received  a  bullet  through  both  eyes.  Farther  off, 
a  gray-haired  ecclesiastic,  whose  dress  betokened  his  episco- 
pal dignity,  was  administering  the  Viaticum  to  a  dying 
Mecklenburg  Hussar.  Even  as  the  sublime  Mystery  of 
Faith  was  uplifted — even  as  the  Englishman  bent  the  knee 
in  adoration — his  glance  fell  upon  the  kneeling  figure  of 
an  old  man  a  few  yards  away. 

Undoubtedly  a  priest,  the  poor  shepherd  of  some  poverty- 
stricken  country  parish,  for  the  cassock  that  covered  the 
frail,  wasted  body  was  threadbare,  green  with  wear  and 
heavily  patched.  Absorbed  in  devotion,  his  broad-brimmed 
hat  lying  on  the  ground  before  him,  his  thin  hands  crossed 
upon  his  sunken  breast,  his  white  head  erect,  his  rapt  gaze 
fixed  upon  the  Host,  he  remained  immovable,  until  the 
brief  but  solemn  rite  was  at  an  end.  Then  he  looked  up  at 
the  sky — shaking  back  the  long  white  hair  that  had  fallen 
about  his  peaked  and  meager  features — making  three  times 
rapidly  the  sign  of  the  Cross.  And  the  serene  and  beauti- 
ful peace  that  rested  on  that  broad  furrowed  forehead,. the 
radiant  smile  upon  the  toothless  mouth,  and  the  beaming 
kindliness  in  the  brilliant  dark  eyes  that  rested  on  P.  C. 
Breagh's,  told  him  that  here  was  the  needed  man. 

Yet  he  hesitated  to  speak  to  the  priest,  who  rose  and 
moved  a  few  steps  farther  to  where  a  shell-torn  horse,  tan- 
gled in  the  rope-harness  that  had  attached  to  it  a  smashed 


THE   MAN   OF   IRON  493 

t 

artillery  caisson,  lay  groaning  and  thrashing  its  long  neck 
and  tortured  head  to  and  fro. 

Parties  of  Uhlans  told  off  for  the  purpose,  were  even 
then  shooting  such  hopelessly  wounded  victims.  But  no 
merciful  bullet  had  ended  the  pain  of  this  suffering  beast. 
It  groaned  again,  and  coughed  up  blood  as  the  old  man 
stopped  to  look  at  it,  and  fixed  its  haggard  eyes  almost 
humanly  upon  his  face. 

The  appeal  went  home.  Stepping  over  the  prone  body  of 
its  dead  comrade,  the  old  man  bent  over  the  horse  and 
gently  stroked  its  neck.  He  said,  and  the  words  came 
clearly  to  Carolan: 

"Poor  creature  of  God!  be  thy  sore  anguish  ended.  In 
the  Name  of  the  Father  ..." 

As  he  ended  the  Triune  Invocation,  the  horse's  head 
sank  down  heavily.  A  deep  sigh  heaved  the  creature's 
sides,  and  exhaled  in  a  gasp.  The  hind  legs  contracted 
sharply  toward  the  body,  and  then  jerked  out,  heavily 
hitting  the  axle  of  the  ammunition-cart.  All  was  over. 
The  Samaritan  moved  away,  but  P.  C.  Breagh  followed  and 
overtook  him,  crying: 

"My  Father  ..."  And  the  old  man  halted  and  turned 
himself,  leaning  for  support  upon  a  knotted  ash-stick  and 
saying : 

"Surely,  my  child.    Do  you  need  my  poor  assistance?" 

A  lisping  voice,  speaking  with  a  country  accent.  And 
with  that  smile  of  radiant  kindness  making  it  angelic — the 
face  of  Voltaire. 

There  were  the  features  of  the  Philosopher  of  Ferney, 
rendered  familiar  to  this  later  age  by  many  portraits  and 
busts.  The  broad  and  lofty  brow,  the  great  orbital  arches, 
the  mobile  expressive  eyes,  wide-winged,  sensitive  hawk- 
beak,  thin-lipped  mouth,  with  the  subtly-curving  corners 
and  the  deeply  cleft  humorous  chin,  were  all  there.  The 
face  lacked  nothing  of  Voltaire  but  cynicism  and  devilry. 
In  place  of  these  imagine  a  Divine  simplicity,  and  a  ten- 
derness so  pure  that  the  young  man  was  abashed.  .  .  . 

"My  Father,"  he  got  out:  "in  charity  to  the  dead  and 
pity  for  the  living,  will  you  consent  to  read  the  Office  of 
Burial  by  a  Catholic  soldier's  graveside?" 

"Surely,  surely,  my  child,"  nodded  the  wearer  of  the 
threadbare  soutane.  And  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  red- 
cotton  handkerchief,  wrapped  about  a  battered  Office-book 


494  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

and  a  shabby  stole,  and  trotted  back  beside  the  English- 
man. Then,  standing  opposite  to  where  the  green  and  red- 
plumed  talpack  topped  the  broken  lance-shaft,  he  read  the 
Absolution,  the  Libera  me,  Paternoster  and  Collects,  and 
with  a  wide  and  sweeping  gesture,  solemnly  blessed  the 
grave  and  the  trenches  it  neighbored,  saying,  at  the  close  of 
the  De  Profundis  that  followed,  with  one  of  those  rare 
smiles  that  made  the  old  face  beautiful  exceedingly : 

"My  poor  prayers  are  for  all  my  children.  Now  kneel 
and  make  your  confession.  No  one  will  hear  you — it  is  as 
though  we  were  together  in  my  poor  little  church. ' ' 

"But,  my  Father!  .  .  ."  P.  C.  Breagh  protested. 

The  old  man  said,  looking  at  him  penetratingly: 

"My  child,  you  would  tell  me  that  not  so  very  long  ago 
you  discharged  your  religious  obligations.  But  to-day  is 
the  Octave  of  the  Assumption  of  Our  Blessed  Lady,  and 
you  have  not  confessed  or  received  Communion  since  Whit- 
suntide. Will  you  tell  me  that  your  conscience  is  clear 
enough  to  meet  death  without  apprehension,  when  Saints  at 
the  moment  'of  dissolution  tremble,  anticipating  the  terrors 
of  the  Divine  Judgments  of  God ! ' ' 

Tears  stood  in  the  radiant  eyes,  brimmed  over  and  ran 
down  in  two  channels  worn  by  that  sorrowful-sweet  smile 
of  his.  .  .  .  He  clasped  his  hands  entreatingly,  then  threw 
them  wide,  crying  in  a  very  passion  of  pity  and  love : 

"My  poor  child,  with  Death  on  every  side  of  you,  will 
you  turn  from  Him  Who  is  Lord  and  Giver  of  Life  ?  And 
what  shall  I  say  to  Him  when  I  stand  before  Him,  and  He 
asks  me :  'Didst  thou  suffer  a  sinner  to  depart  whom  plead- 
ings might  have  won?'  ' 

There  was  no  resisting  that  passionate  entreaty.  An- 
other instant,  and  the  barrier  of  pride  broke  down.  P.  C. 
Breagh  knelt  in  the  raw,  moist  clay  by  Henri  de  Bayard 's 
graveside,  and  poured  out  his  full  heart  under  the  light  yet 
thrilling  pressure  of  those  thin  old  hands  upon  his  head. 

With  the  murmured  blessing  that  followed  the  Absolu- 
tion the  hands  were  withdrawn  and  their  owner  went  away. 
How  he  went  and  whither  he  betook  himself,  his  penitent 
never  knew. 


THE    MAN    OF.   IRON  495 


LVIII 

THE  hamlet  of  Petit  Plappeville  lay  strangely  still  and 
silent  in  the  westering  sunshine.  Hitherto  a  small  oasis  of 
untouched  ordinary  life  situated  on  the  edge  of  a  vast  area 
of  blackened  devastation,  it  now  partook  in  the  general 
aspect  of  upheaval  and  ruin.  The  doors  of  the  dozen  cot- 
tages forming  its  single  street  stood  wide  open.  Household! 
goods,  furniture,  clothing,  broken  loaves  of  bread,  smashed 
and  empty  wine-bottles  were  strewed  upon  the  street  and, 
in  the  little,  flowery  front  yards.  All  the  doors  stood  open, 
some  that  had  been  locked  and  driven  in  hung  crookedly  on 
twisted  hinges,  the  broken  windows  displayed  shattered 
splinters  edging  gaping  holes.  Not  a  human  being  showed, 
not  a  fowl  pecked  among  the  litter.  The  hand  of  the  ma- 
rauder had  plainly  been  at  work.  P.  C.  Breagh  groaned 
as  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  Madame  Guyot's  cottage, 
such  a  scene  of  domestic  chaos  housed  between  its  defiled 
walls. 

Chests  of  drawers  and  cupboards  had  been  ransacked  of 
clothes  and  linen,  these,  hideously  befouled,  had  been  rent 
into  rags  and  thrown  upon  the  floor.  The  fragments  of  the 
Englishman's  knapsack,  temporarily  left  in  Madame  Guy- 
ot's keeping,  the  ruins  of  his  shaving-tackle,  and  some 
stray  leaves  of  filled  note-books,  deplorably  appealed  to 
their  late  owner's  eyes.  But  P.  C.  Breagh 's  eyes  were 
busied  elsewhere.  With  the  ripped-up  feather  bed  from 
the  inner  chamber,  where  Juliette  de  Bayard  had  passed 
the  previous  night.  With  the  soiled  and  trampled  rem- 
nants of  some  delicate  articles  of  feminine  underwear — a 
lace-frilled  night-robe,  a  filmy  chemise.  He  took  them  up 
with  reverent,  shaking  hands — looked  instinctively  for  an 
initial.  .  .  .  There  were  letters  embroidered  in  dainty 
Convent-taught  stitchery — "J.  M.  de  B." 

He  would  have  cried  out,  but  the  cry  stuck  in  his  throat, 
and  a  chilly  sweat  broke  out  upon  and  bathed  him.  He 
had  glanced  toward  the  corner  occupied  by  the  truckle-bed 
whereon  my  Cousin  Boisset  had  lain.  Covered  with  a  sheet 
dyed  partly  red,  something  long  and  stark  and  still  lay 
outstretched  upon  the  palliasse.  And  a  lance  driven  home 
to  the  shaft  stuck  upright  in  the  body,  from  whose  drained- 
out  veins  the  last  drops  splashed  heavily  into  a  dreadful 


496  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

pool  that  slowly  widened  on  the  stone-flagged  kitchen  floor. 

Something  snapped  in  P.  C.  Breagh  's  brain  at  that  sight. 
His  under-jaw  wrenched  to  one  side  and  dropped  idiot- 
ically. He  yelped  out  wildly  the  name  of  his  Infanta,  and 
went  on  yelping,  and  could  not  stop : 

"Juliette!  Juliette!  Where  are  you?  What  have  they 
done?  ...  Oh,  Juliette!  ..." 

And  then  the  piercing  agony  of  his  loss  and  the  certainty 
of  a  fate  of  nameless  horror  for  her,  were  lost  in  an  im- 
mense relief.  Underneath  the  bed  of  death  something 
moved  and  rustled.  The  slender  thread  of  a  voice  replied : 

"Monsieur  Breagh,  I  am  here!  Do  not  be  so  alarmed,  I 
beg  of  you !  Terrible  things  have  happened,  but  I  am  not 
hurt  at  all!" 

And  the  ensanguined  pall  was  pushed  aside  and  the  little 
figure  crept  out  from  its  hiding-place.  Dust  and  cobwebs 
could  not  dim  her  in  the  eyes  of  her  true  worshiper.  He 
choked  and  made  a  dive  to  help  her,  stumbled  and  fell  upon 
his  knees  as  she  rose  to  hers.  And  then  she  was  in  his 
arms,  not  clinging  to  him,  but  leaning  against  his  broad 
chest,  and  shivering  as  though  she  were  perishing  cold. 
And  through  the  chattering  of  her  teeth  he  heard — did  he 
really  hear  her  falter: 

' '  I  knew — I  knew  that  you  would  come !  When  a  priest 
had  been  found  to  bless  the  grave  of  my  father.  Not 
before!  .  .  .  You  would  never  have  returned  before!" 

Her  faith  in  him  filled  him  with  a  joy  that  was  anguish. 
He  rose  up,  lifting  her  toward  the  light,  but  not  at  all 
releasing  her. 

"I  came  as  soon  as  I  had  done  my  best  to  keep  that 
promise.  Shall  I  ever  forget  what  I  felt  when  I  set  my 
foot  in  at  the  door?  .  .  .  Oh,  Lord!  .  .  .  Ten  million 
times  worse  than  when  that  luckless  Angele  poisoned  me! 
.  .  .  Didn't  I  make  sure  you  were  dead  or  worse  than 
dead!" 

"It  is  he  who  is  dead!"  She  drew  her  small,  cold  hands 
from  his  that  were  as  icy,  and  went  to  the  bed  and  turned 
back  the  upper  end  of  the  sheet  that  covered  the  still  form. 
"Monsieur  Breagh,  you  look  upon  a  noble  soldier,  who 
gave  his  life  for  me,"  she  said  proudly,  and  showed  the 
snow-white  face  of  my  Cousin  Boisset. 

"Wouldn't  I  die  for  you?  If  I  got  the  chance!  .  .  - 
Don't  you  know  it?  ...  No — how  can  you  know  it?" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  497 

Carolan  clenched  his  hands  in  jealous  misery,  and  she 
looked  back  at  him  to  say : 

"  I  do  know  it !  To-day  you  placed  yourself  between  me 
and  the  violence  of  those  Prussians.  I  have  no  words  to 
thank  you  for  your  courage,  sir!  Had  I  words  for  him" — 
she  looked  back  at  my  "cousin" — "he  would  not  hear 

them.    .    .  .    Nor  can  he  be  sensible  of  this "      She 

stooped  and  kissed  the  dead  man's  forehead  between  the 
boldly  arching  eyebrows.  "Yet  with  all  my  gratitude  I 
place  it  there ! ' ' 

P.  C.  Breagh  said,  flushing  scarlet  to  his  hair-roots:  "I 
would  change  places  with  him  to  get  that — and  I  believe 
you  know  it!  Cover  him  up  and  let  me  take  you  away 
from  here.  ..."  He  added,  as  she  looked  at  him  in  breath- 
less questioning,  "Somewhere  where  you'll  be  safe.  There 
must  be  somewhere ! ' ' 

"Until  night  comes  to  cover  us,"  she  told  him,  "we  are 
more  safe  here  than  anywhere.  You  do  not  think  the 
comrades  of  those  savage  men  who  made  this  scene  of  deso- 
lation would  halt  in  passing  to  ravage  a  plundered  nest?" 

"But  here  .  .  .  you  can't  stay  here  ...  in  all  this — 
beastliness. ' ' 

His  gesture  of  repugnance  was  as  forcible  as  the  word. 

She  thought,  and  said  as  the  outward  shadows  length- 
ened, and  a  deep  red  sunset  streamed  through  the  shattered 
window-panes : 

"Behind  the  house  there  is  a  little  cabane  ...  I  should 
say,  'a  shed,'  where  Madame  kept  her  firewood.  We  will 
hide  ourselves  in  there  until  the  dark.  For  what  are  you 
looking?" 

He  answered,  stirring  the  debris  on  the  flagstones : 

"For  a  comb  and  a  razor  for  choice,  out  of  my  knap- 
sack. No!  ...  Except  the  rags  of  a  spare  jacket — they've 
left  me  nothing  but  this. ' ' 

One  stout  clasped  notebook  had  suffered  little.  He  thrust 
it  into  his  pocket  and  turned  to  Juliette.  She  said,  with  a 
rueful  catch  of  the  breath  as  she  regarded  the  wreckage  of 
her  own  property: 

"Me  they  have  not  left  anything  at  all  of  luggage.  The 
little  portemanteau  and  the  sac  de  nuit  I  brought  with  me 
from  Belgium  .  .  .  behold  their  contents  destroyed  by 
those  most  wicked  men !  Is  it  not  deplorable  ?  Pray  look, 
Monsieur!" 


498  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

But  Monsieur,  suddenly  seized  by  an  attack  of  ultra- 
British  prudery,  had  turned  away  to  rummage  in  the  cor- 
ner of  a  cupboard,  where  perchance  might  lurk  a  loaf. 

Nothing  was  there  but  a  little  knitted  white  shawl,  which 
Juliette  recognized  as  her  own,  and  claimed  gladly.  .  .  . 
She  threw  it  about  her  head  and  shoulders,  and  they  passed 
out  cautiously  together  by  Madame  Guyot's  back  door,  as 
destitute  a  young  couple  as  ever  tramped.  But  not  before 
Juliette  de  Bayard  had  replaced  the  sheet  over  the  face  of 
the  dead  gunner,  and  sprinkled  it  with  holy  water  from  a 
crockery  stoup  that  hung  above  the  bed. 

"He  was  so  good.  .  .  .  He  should  now  be  safe  in 
Paradise.  But  we  must  always  remember  him  in  our 
prayers!  .  .  ." 

It  would  not  have  been  wise  to  move  about,  but  they 
could  talk  in  whispers,  partly  buried  in  the  heap  of  clean 
dry  dead  leaves  filling  half  of  the  lean-to.  Thus  P.  C. 
Breagh  learned  the  story  of  the  death  of  my  Cousin  Bois- 
set,  and  told  in  return  his  own  tale. 

"You  had  departed,  it  might  be  one-half  hour,  when  a 
man  came  running  down  the  street,  who  cried:  'Hide! 
Run !  The  Uhlans  are  coming !  They  have  plundered  the 
Chateau  Malakoff,  and  drunk  M.  Benoit's  eau  de  vie  and 
wine ! ' 

"This  Chateau  Malakoff  is  the  house  of  a  rich  peasant 
whose  vineyards  have  suffered  much  by  the  German  guns. 
You  will  remember  Madame  Guyot  saying  so,  and  M.  Bois- 
set  responding,  full  of  gaiety,  'He  will  get  all  the  better 
prices,  my  cousin,  for  the  old  vintages  he  has  in  store!' 
Naturally  the  outcry  made  much  confusion,  one  peasant 
running  this  way  and  one  that.  .  .  .  Madame  Guyot 
caught  hold  of  me  and  would  have  forced  me  to  accompany 
her,  saying  that  in  the  quarries  beyond  the  village  would 
be  found  a  refuge.  But  I  refused  to  leave  the  house ! ' ' 

He  broke  in : 

"Think  what  you  risked!  Why  didn't  you  escape  with 
her?" 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly: 

"Why,  do  you  ask  me?  .  .  .  Had  I  not  given  you  my 
parole  to  stay?" 

He  could  not  speak.    She  went  on  quickly: 

"So  I  said:  'I  will  remain,  wearing  my  brassard  of  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  499 

Croix  Rouge,  and  the  Prussians  will  take  me  for  the  nurse 
of  M.  Boisset.'  But  when  Madame  and  the  villagers  had 
gone,  hearing  the  galloping  of  horses  approaching  and  a 
howling  as  of  wolves,  that  brave  soldier  said  to  me :  '  Made- 
moiselle, when  men  like  these  are  mad  with  wine,  they  care 
nothing  for  the  Red  Cross!  Cover  me  over  with  a  sheet, 
and  hide  underneath  the  bed  I  lie  on.  Thus  they  will  think 
me  dead,  and  possibly  go  away.  The  good  God  may  let  me 
save  you,  though  I  have  often  sinned  against  Him ! '  ! 

A  tear  brimmed  over  and  fell  on  her  white  cheek.  She 
brushed  it  off  and  went  on : 

"I  obeyed,  Monsieur;  I  locked  the  door,  taking  out  the 
key  and  hiding  it.  Then  I  covered  M.  Boisset  with  the 
sheet,  took  a  crucifix  from  the  wall,  and  laid  it  on  his 
breast.  Then  I  got  under  the  bed,  for  I  heard  men  at  the 
door.  There  was  the  'tine'  of  spurs  and  the  sound  of 
breathing.  Then  heavy  blows  struck  on  the  door  until  the 
lock  gave  way.  .  .  .  They  entered.  .  .  .  Monsieur  Breagh, 
that  noble  man  had  said  to  me,  'For  your  life,  do  not  make 
a  sound!'  For  my  soul,  more  precious  than  life,  I  could 
not  have  spoken  or  moved !  .  .  . " 

Above  the  narrow  band  of  black  velvet  that  clipped  it, 
P.  C.  Breagh  could  see  her  little  throat  swelling.  Her 
tragic  eyes  seemed  to  have  no  room  for  him.  He  waited, 
possessed  by  a  strange  hazy  feeling  that  this  meeting  with 
her  amidst  surroundings  so  frightful  must  be  taking  place 
in  a  dream  of  uncanny  vividness.  That  he  must  wake  up 
next  moment  in  the  clean  spare  bedroom  of  the  gardener's 
cottage,  to  find  his  garments,  cleansed  of  soil  and  stain, 
brushed  and  repaired  by  the  deft  hands  of  the  charitable 
Sisters,  and  a  battered  tin  bath  of  genuinely  hot  water, 
waiting  to  receive  the  Englishman.  .... 

"They  came  in,"  said  Juliette,  "talking  in  their  guttural 
language.  Me,  I  could  never  learn  more  than  ten  words  of 
German  at  school.  .  .  .  But  I  comprehended  that  they 
were  angry  at  finding  so  little  in  the  cupboards  and  closets 
of  my  poor  Madame  Guyot.  That  was  why  they  tore  up 
clothes  and  linen — broke  the  dishes  and  glasses — behaved 
as  wild  beasts,  rather  than  men.  That  they  were  drunk,  I 
knew,  though  I  saw  their  boots  and  not  their  faces.  The 
smell  of  wine  and  brandy  made  me  desire  to  be  sick.  .  .  ., 
But  when  they  approached  the  bed,  with  what  anguish  of 
apprehension  I  waited.  ...  If  I  could  have  screamed,  it 


500  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

would  have  been  in  that  moment,  when  they  pulled  back 
the  sheet.  ..." 

Her  eyelids  shuddered  over  trembling  eyeballs.  Her 
nostrils  quivered  with  each  sharply-taken  breath.  Her 
tragic  upper  lip  shut  down  upon  its  neighbor  as  though  it 
would  never  relax  in  smiles  again : 

"I  heard  my  own  heart  beat — so  loud  it  was  like  thun- 
der. I  felt  M.  Boisset  trying  to  hold  the  breath.  ...  I 
prayed  to  the  Mother  of  God  to  cover  us  with  Her  manteau. 
I  think  she  has  certainly  heard  me  when  the  Uhlans  put 
back  the  sheet.  .  .  .  Alas,  how  terribly  I  am  to  find  myself 
mistaken!  When  the  Uhlan  moves  from  the  bed  I  believe 
he  is  about  to  go.  Then — there  is  a  savage  cry ! — a  groan, 
hollow  and  terrible.  .  .  .  The  lance  comes  plunging  through 
the  body  of  M.  Boisset,  through  the  palliasse — through  the 
sacking  that  is  underneath — through  the  sleeve  of  my  dress, 
which  is  soaked  with  blood.  .  .  .  See !  .  .  . " 

And  she  drew  out  a  fold  of  the  loose  sleeve,  and  showed 
the  rent  made  by  the  steel  in  it  and  the  wet  red  patches 
fast  drying  into  brownish  stains.  And  he  who  saw  could 
only  choke  out,  as  his  brows  scowled  and  his  yellow-flecked 
eyes  burned  tigerishly: 

* '  The  brutes !  .  .  .  The  cowardly  beggars !  Oh,  if  I  had 
only  been  there!" 

"Of  what  use?"  she  said.  "They  would  only  have 
killed  you!" 

"An  Englishman,"  he  blustered:  "I'd  like  to  have  had 
them  try!  Why,  we're  neutral.  No  Germans  would 
dare " 

She  said,  bending  her  great  black  brows  upon  him,  and 
sternly  drawing  down  her  upper  lip : 

"Monsieur,  they  would  have  killed  you,  as  they  killed 
my  father.  They  have  no  pity,  these  men  with  panther 
hearts.  How  should  they,  when  he  has  none — that  soldier- 
Minister  whom  Germany  worships  to  idolatry.  Contradict 
me — say  that  I  am  wrong — to  convince  me  would  be  im- 
possible. For  I  read  the  soul  of  CounJ  Bismarck  when  I 
looked  him  in  the  face." 

For  the  owner  of  the  domineering  voice  that  had  roused 
her  from  her  stupor  of  misery  was  for  Juliette  de  Bayard  a 
very  Moloch,  ravenous  for  flesh  of  men,  insatiable  in  thirst 
for  blood.  And  comprehending  this,  P.  C.  Breagh  put 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  501 

forth  no  plea  for  a  more  tolerant  judgment  of  his  erstwhile 
hero,  beyond  lamely  saying: 

"He's  a  great  man — a  terribly  great  man,  however  you 
look  at  him.  And  he — do  you  know,  he  saved  my  life 
once ! ' ' 

She  said,  with  her  deeply  cut  nostrils  swelling  and 
quivering : 

"Our  Lord  will  say  to  him  upon  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
'You  saved  this  one.  How  many  others  have  you  given 
to  death?'  : 

Then,  as  P.  C.  Breagh  winced  at  the  brief,  semi-contemp- 
tuous '  This  one, '  Juliette  healed  the  wound  with  one  gentle 
glance.  The  delicate  voice  crept  to  his  sore  heart  sooth- 
ingly : 

' '  But  for  that  rescue,  I  should  now  be  quite  alone  in  my 
great  misery.  I  think  that  God  permitted  it,  knowing  this 
day  upon  its  way  to  me. " 

P.  C.  Breagh  said,  tingling  all  over : 

"Do  you  really  believe  that?  ..." 

She  answered  simply  and  directly : 

"If  I  did  not,  I  would  not  say  it.  ...  Now  I  will  shut 
my  eyes  and  rest  a  little.  I  am  so  very  tired,  me ! " 

And  she  leaned  back  with  lowered  lashes  on  her  rustling 
pillow  of  last  year's  dead  leaves.  He  asked  himself  what 
had  she  not  gone  through  on  this  day,  poor  fragile,  tender 
child ! 

Had  the  news  of  her  father's  death  been  brought  to  her 
in  London  or  Paris,  there  would  have  been  closed  doors,  a 
darkened  chamber  for  the  mourner,  the  presence  of  some 
well-loved  consoler,  the  counsel  of  her  director,  the  silent 
sympathy  of  understanding  friends. 

But  here,  where  every  custom  and  conventionality  was 
suspended  or  shattered — where  human  life  was  bared  to  the 
bedrock  by  the  furious  struggle  of  nations  in  "War,  she 
had  sought  for  a  wounded  warrior,  to  find  a  bloody  corpse 
amidst  a  jumble  of  other  corpses,  and  returned  from  that 
overwhelming  experience  to  sit  with  strangers  at  a  peas- 
ant's board. 

No  wonder  Juliette  was  very  tired.  Would  her  reason 
suffer  from  the  results  of  this  shock  ?  Would  she  droop  and 
die  of  the  horrors  undergone?  Was  it  possible  that  in  a 
body  so  frail  there  dwelt  an  indomitable  and  unconquerable 


502  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

spirit?  It  had  looked  out  of  her  stern  eyes,  it  had  sal 
upon  her  lips  when  she  had  spoken  of  the  Iron  Chancellor. 

Even  as  P.  C.  Breagh  leaned  toward  the  small  white  face, 
brooding  over  it,  breathlessly  studying  it,  she  opened  sap- 
phire eyes  upon  him,  to  say,  with  the  suddenness  of  a  child : 

"I  have  been  told  that  the  Crown  Prince  of  Prussia  is 
good  and  has  a  noble  nature.  Do  you  not  think  that  if  he 
knew  how  wickedly  those  Uhlans  have  killed  the  poor  M. 
Boisset  he  would  without  mercy  have  them  shot?" 

P.  C.  Breagh,  caught  staring,  confusedly  opined  so.  She 
said,  her  heavy  eyelids  weighed  down  with  drowsiness: 

' '  They  were  cowards,  for  they  took  the  alarm  and  mount- 
ed and  rode  away  calling  that  the  Franzosischen  were  com- 
ing. .  .  .  Yet  when  they  had  gone  and  I  crept  out  from  my 
concealment,  what  do  you  imagine  is  all  that  I  view?  In 
effect,  nothing  more  terrible  than  an  old,  bent,  white-haired 
priest  in  a  ragged  soutane,  who  was  walking  through  the 
village  saying  his  Kosary.  ..." 

She  went  on,  as  P.  C.  Breagh  pricked  his  ears,  and 
opened  his  eyes  widely: 

"He  looked  so  good  and  like  the  pictures  of  the  holy 
Cure  d  'Ars,  for  whose  intercession  I  had  been  praying,  that 
I  cried  to  him:  'Help,  my  Father!  Help  for  one  dying! 
Help  for  another  in  misery!'  But  he  must  have  been  less 
holy  than  he  looked,  or  very  deaf,  for  he  passed  on.  Then 
I  crept  back  under  the  bed,  and  then — at  last,  you  came  to 
me.  "What  should  I  have  done  if  you  had  not  come,  Mon- 
sieur? .  .  ." 

For  once  Carolan  did  not  hear  her.  His  thoughts  were 
busy  elsewhere.  He  was  asking  himself  if  the  old  priest 
in  the  patched  cassock  who  had  shown  himself  to  Juliette, 
could  be  the  Cure  who  had  read  the  Office  at  the  grave  of 
de  Bayard? 

And  if  that  priest  were  mortal  man,  how  had  he  covered 
the  distance  between  the  battlefield  and  Petit  Plappeville, 
and  what  had  scared  the  drunken  marauders  from  their 
prey?  And  was  it  not  strange  that  the  resemblance  to  the 
saint  of  Ars  had  appealed  to  both  Carolan  and  Juliette? 
.  .  .  The  problem  must  remain  unsolved  for  all  Time,  it 
might  be. 

Yet  this  fact  had  stamped  itself  on  P.  C.  Breagh 's  con- 
sciousness, deeply  as  his  own  heavy  nailed  boots  had  bitten 
into  the  clay  by  the  Colonel's  graveside.  On  the  moist  sur- 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  503 

face  of  the  spot  where  the  Servant  of  Heaven  had  been 
standing,  the  clumsy  iron-buckled,  wooden-soled  shoes  had 
left  no  print  at  all. 

An  interesting  illusion,  bred  of  the  exaltation  of  the 
senses  under  emotion,  produced  in  part,  says  my  friend  the 
Physiologist,  by  subconscious  Memory.  A  significant  phe- 
nomenon, remarks  my  other  friend,  the  student  of  Psychol- 
ogy, testifying  to  the  thinness  of  the  Veil  dividing  the  Vis- 
ible World  from  the  Unseen.  While  my  Catholic  terms  it 
a  rare  but  not  isolated  or  uncommon  revelation,  pointing 
the  stupendous  truth  contained  in  that  clause  of  the  Credo 
referring  to  the  Communion  of  Saints  and  illustrating  the 
dynamic  force  of  Prayer. 


LIX 

JULIETTE  breathed  so  evenly,  and  lay  so  long  without  mov- 
ing, that  P.  C.  Breagh  believed  her  asleep.  Twilight  showed 
nothing  but  a  black  shape,  vaguely  feminine,  a  pale  oval 
patch  represented  her  face.  - ... 

Suddenly  as  before,  her  eyes  opened  and  met  his.  She 
said,  following  up  some  previous  train  of  thought : 

"It  is  nobler  than  the  portraits,  and  yet  more  pitiless. 
I  speak  of  the  face  of  my  country's  enemy.  .  .  .  See  you 
well,  Monsieur  Breagh  ...  if  I  were  Our  Lady,  I  would 
never  rise  from  my  knees  until  Our  Lord  had  saved 
France!  .  .  ." 

"What  would  save  France?"  Carolan  asked  her.  She 
answered,  turning  in  her  rustling  couch  of  leaves: 

' '  Death,  striking  the  hand  that  slowly  strangles  her.  .  .  . 
Death,  freezing  the  brain  that  plans  her  fall.  .  .  .  Death, 
overtaking  the  merciless  giver  of  Death  to  her  children.  .  .  . 
Nothing  else  could  now  save  France !  .  .  . " 

He  who  heard  was  dumb,  knowing  that  this  harping  was 
the  very  note  of  madness.  She  went  on,  speaking  with 
somber  earnestness: 

"Always  is  it  that  women  are  accused  by  men  of  weak- 
ness. Frenchwomen  are,  in  addition,  termed  'timid  and 
frivolous. '  Yet  France  has  twice  been  saved  by  the  courage 
of  her  daughters.  .  .  .  Remember  the  holy  Jeanne  d'Arc, 


504  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

beloved  of  God  and  Our  Lady  .  .  .  and  Charlotte  Corday 
also,  Monsieur! — the  courageous  citizeness  of  Caen.  .  .  . 
At  school  I  learned  her  words,  spoken  before  the  Revolu- 
tionary Tribunal.  .  .  .  'Me,  I  have  slain  one  man  to  save  a 
hundred  thousand/  .  .  .'  Why  has  not  France  a  Charlotte 
Corday  now?" 

There  was  something  in  her  tone  that  menaced  like  the 
flicker  of  lightning,  seen  through  a  rent  in  stormy  wrack. 
That  a  creature  so  frail  and  slender  should  dream  of  heroic 
vengeance  was  incredible.  One  would  have  expected  it 
from  a  heroine  of  the  Krimhilde-Briinhilde  type.  To 
divert  her  from  the  dangerous  theme  by  changing  the  con- 
versation was  impossible.  The  only  thing  to  do  was  to 
feign  to  doze. 

He  yawned,  stretched  his  aching  body  on  the  clean  dry 
litter,  shut  his  hot  and  sandy  eyes,  seeing  rings  of  green- 
blue  fire.  Oblivion  descended  on  him.  Pretense  became 
reality.  He  sank  into  a  very  gulf  of  sleep. 

Long  after  her  comrade 's  heavy  respiration  had  told  her 
that  he  was  wrapped  in  slumber,  Juliette  Bayard  sat  star- 
ing out  into  the  deepening  dusk.  Insomnia  born  of  nerv- 
ous strain  and  mental  shock  claimed  her  as  a  victim.  She 
was  far  more  near  to  madness  than  Carolan  had  dreamed. 

It  was  a  night  of  chilly  breathings  from  the  northwest, 
and  violent  contrasts  in  light  and  shadow;  a  high  bright 
moon  making  black  silhouettes  of  hills  and  trees,  and  bot- 
tomless infernos  of  hollows  and  ravines.  Gigantesque 
clouds  up-piled  monstrous  ramparts  on  the  southeast  hori- 
zon, others  topped  these  with  the  strangest  sculpturesque 
shapes.  .  .  .  An  iceberg  with  a  veiled  crouching  figure  on 
it ;  a  mammoth  with  elevated  trunk  and  great  curved  tusks, 
bellowing  in  dumb  show ;  wrestling  shapes  of  Titans  prone 
or  erect;  lovely  children  playing  in  meadows  of  asphodel; 
vast  winged  shapes  of  genii  with  hidden  faces,  speeding 
across  unthinkable  distances  of  cold,  crystal-blue  atmos- 
phere. 

But  the  cloud-shape  that  most  persistently  recurred  was 
that  of  a  heavy-browed,  mustached  Colossus,  who  some- 
times was  helmed  and  cuirassed,  and  bestrode  a  monstrous 
horse  of  war.  In  other  vaporous  pictures  he  addressed 
great  multitudes  from  a  high  rostrum,  or  from  some  fan- 
tastic hill-peak  urged  on  rushing  armies;  or  sometimes 


THE    MAN   OF,   IRON  505 

counseled  a  crowned  figure  that  sat  upon  a  high-placed 
throne. 

Yet  whatever  the  giant  was,  there  was  sure  to  be  another 
figure,  slender,  weak,  fragile,  a  mere  vaporous  wisp  of  mist. 
And  the  watcher  had  strange  cognizance  that  this  was  the 
appointed  Fate  of  Colossus,  and  that  her  constant  presence 
was  an  augury  of  ill  for  him. 

He  walked  amid  trees  in  a  wood,  and  his  Fate  dogged 
his  footsteps,  a  pistol  or  poignard  ready  for  her  country's 
enemy.  .  .  .  He  ate  at  a  dais-table  in  a  banqueting  hall — 
she  served  him.  a  golden  cup  of  wine  iced  and  poisoned. 
.  .  .  He  lay  down  to  sleep  on  a  lordly  bed,  the  frail  shape 
glided  in  with  a  torch  and  fired  the  curtains.  .  .  .  He 
dreamed  of  Power  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  and  his  tiny 
Fate  crept  near  unseen,  and  thrust  him  screaming  down. 

The  moon  had  long  southed,  the  cloud-shapes  were  grow- 
ing vaguer,  the  eyes  of  the  stars  looked  through  their  thin- 
ning veils.  The  wind  had  fallen,  the  silence  was  profound 
and  awful.  She  shuddered,  thinking  of  the  battlefield.  .  .  . 

"What  of  de  Bayard  lying  under  his  clay  coverlet? 
What  of  the  thousands  of  bodies  buried  in  the  newly-dug 
trenches?  What  of  the  myriads  yet  unburied,  lying  stark 
and  awful  under  the  canopy  of  Night  ? 

Did  they  understand,  the  Dead,  whose  hand  had  really 
poured  red  life  from  them,  and  thrown  them  like  empty, 
broken  vessels  abroad  upon  the  trodden  fields?  Did  they 
curse  him  with  their  stiff,  silent  lips,  and  point  at  him  with 
their  rigid  fingers?  Would  they  know,  in  Paradise  or 
Purgatory,  if  anyone  avenged  them?  In  Hell  they  would 
be  sure  to  know,  because  their  murderer  would  be 
there.  .  .  . 

"Ting.  .  .  ." 

What  was  that  faint  approaching  sound,  drawing  nearer 
and  nearer  through  the  darkness,  that  banished  the  haunt- 
ing, dreadful  images  that  crowded  in  her  brain?  It  loosed 
the  iron  band  that  was  bound  about  her  aching  temples. 
It  melted  the  icy  armor  that  was  riveted  about  her  torn 
and  sorrowful  heart.  .  .  . 

"  Ting-ting  f" 

She  turned  her  head  to  the  quarter  whence  it  came,  and 
listened,  breathing  quickly.  Again  came  the  silvern  tinkle. 

"Ting-ting-ting!  .  .  ." 

Now  the  sound  of  heavy  approaching  footsteps  came 


506  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

with,  it,  and  Fear  fell  from  her  like  a  pall  all  snow-wet. 
She  rose  up  among  the  rustling  dead  leaves,  bent,  laid  her 
hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  sleeper,  and  roused  him  cau- 
tiously. He  awakened,  and  said  through  the  fingers  she 
laid  in  caution  on  his  lips : 

"Who  is  it?  .  .  ."  And  then  instantly  remembered, 
and  passionately  kissed  the  warning  hand. 

"Ting-ting,  ting-ting!  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  hear,  Monsieur?"  she  panted. 

She  snatched  away  the  hand.  He  rose  to  his  knees  and 
listened.  .  .  .  Dawn,  creeping  into  the  hovel,  painted  their 
hands  and  faces  gray.  White  teeth  flashed  in  the  gray  of 
his,  as  he  said  to  her  joyfully: 

"  It  is  a  priest,  with  the  Blessed  Sacrament ! ' ' 

No  more  was  said.  They  took  hands  and  went  out  of 
the  hovel,  and  passed  round  and  through  the  little  flowery 
front  yard  into  the  littered  street  of  Petit  Plappeville. 

At  its  upper  end  two  black  figures,  encircled  by  the 
yellow  halo  of  a  lantern-flame,  moved  toward  them.  Their 
shadows  were  thrown  sidewise  upon  the  littered  road  and 
the  whitewashed  garden  walls.  The  bell  tinkled,  telling 
of  the  coming  of  Him  Who  is  the  Light  of  the  World.  The 
wheezing  of  someone  troubled  with  asthma  accompanied 
the  clumping  of  wooden-soled  country  shoes. 

Presently  came  in  sight  an  old  woman  in  sabots,  carrying 
an  immense  umbrella,  and  a  huge  and  antique  lantern  with 
horn  slides.  The  stout  figure  of  an  elderly  priest  followed 
her,  covered  with  a  biretta,  wearing  a  wide  black  mantle, 
and  walking  at  a  slow  and  decent  pace. 

At  intervals  he  tinkled  the  small  hand  bell  he  carried 
in  his  left  hand.  His  right  arm  was  folded  over  his 
breast.  As  Juliette  sank  down  in  the  dry  dust,  her 
companion  hesitated  an  instant,  then  knelt  down  beside 
the  girl. 

The  priest  stopped  as  he  neared  the  kneeling  pair,  and 
blessed  them  in  silence.  His  round  face  looked  puckered 
and  anxious.  He  said,  as  his  glance  took  in  the  bareheaded 
young  man  and  the  slender  young  woman,  and  their  en- 
vironment of  ruin  and  desolation: 

"My  children,  are  you  the  only  living  creatures  remain- 
ing in  this  unhappy  village  ? ' ' 

Juliette  was  praying.  P.  C.  Breagh  answered  in  a 
reverent  whisper: 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  507 

"Yes,  my  Father.  The  Prussian  horsemen  came,  and 
the  villagers  left  their  houses.  .  .  .  There  was  a  wounded 
soldier  in  the  cottage  of  Madame  Guyot.  He  feigned  to  be 
dead,  and  the  Uhlans  ran  him  through  with  one  of  their 
lances.  He  lies  within  there  !  May  his  soul  rest  in  peace  !  '  ' 

The  priest  solemnly  raised  the  Host,  and  blessed  the 
house  of  death.  Then  he  said  to  Carolan  and  Juliette  : 

"It  will  be  best  that  you  should  follow  me  to  the  place 
where  I  am  going.  A  person  lies  there  in  extremity,  to 
whom  I  carry  Our  Lord.  Your  presence  will  be  something 
of  an  additional  protection,  in  case  any  of  these  foreign 
soldiers  should  offer  insult  to  Him  I  bear.  '  ' 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  moved  on  along  the  street  that 
was  cumbered  with  the  wreckage  of  humble  households. 
The  old  woman  in  sabots  preceded  him,  assiduously  light- 
ing his  path.  And  the  boy  and  girl  came  after  the  priest, 
walking  side  by  side  decorously.  But  presently,  when 
Juliette  stumbled,  Carolan  took  her  hand. 


They  might  have  been  walking  to  the  Sepulcher  on  that 
earliest  Easter  morning,  when  He  "Who  wrought  man  in 
His  Own  Image  broke  asunder  the  bonds  of  Death.  The 
air  was  sweet  with  a  wonderful  reviving  fragrance.  Their 
pulses  throbbed  calmly,  their  blood  flowed  through  their 
veins  smoothly  as  new  milk.  Presently  the  old  woman  who 
walked  before  them  began  in  a  monotone  to  recite  the 
Rosary.  They  answered,  murmuring  the  sacred  words  in 
unison,  moving  on  as  though  in  a  dream. 

Over  the  smoldering  villages  in  the  southeast  the  August 

moon  was  setting,  hanging  like  a  great  ripe  glowing  fruit 

against  a  background  of  translucent  silvery  hue.    A  broad 

'*>  band  of  primrose-yellow  banding  the  purple  blackness  in 

|  the  East  betokened  daybreak.    Above,  there  hung  one  star 

of  blazing  emerald. 

When  they  turned  out  of  Petit  Plappeville  into  a  lane 
that  trended  upward,  they  could  see  upon  the  right  the 
long  lines  of  Prussian  watch  fires  twinkling  like  rubies  out 
of  a  mist  that  covered  the  low-lying  country  like  a  shallow, 
milky  sea.  Upon  the  left  rose  the  ivied  stone  wall  of  some 
orchard  or  chateau  garden.  Steps  rose  to  an  archway  in 
which  hung  the  fragments  of  a  door  that  had  been  bat- 
tered in. 

"Ting!" 


508  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

As  the  priest  rang  his  bell  a  bareheaded  man  appeared 
in  the  doorway.  He  was  very  pale,  his  dress  was  dis- 
ordered, and  his  eyes  had  a  strained  and  anxious  look. 
He  bent  the  knee  and  crossed  himself,  then  stood  aside  as 
the  Cure  mounted  the  doorsteps.  His  wild  eyes  questioned 
the  faces  of  the  strangers  who  followed  the  lantern-bearer. 
He  seemed  reassured  by  what  he  saw  there,  and  said  to 
the  priest  in  a  muffled  tone,  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by 
his  companions: 

"Take  care  .  .  .  there  is  broken  glass  strewed  every- 
where about  here.  Do  not  put  out  the  lantern;  it  will  be 
safer  walking  with  more  than  one  light!" 

Then  he  took  up  a  heavy  silver  candlestick  he  had  set 
down  upon  a  sort  of  rustic  flower  stand.  The  candle  wax 
had  guttered  all  down  one  side,  making  what  old  women 
call  a  winding  sheet.  He  glanced  at  this  as  he  took  it  up, 
and  then  at  Mere  Catherine.  Then  he  moved  forward, 
taking  her  place  as  guide,  and  the  glass  of  smashed  wine 
bottles  that  covered  the  ground  cracked  and  crackled  under 
his  own  boots,  and  the  Cure's  wooden-soled  shoes.  The 
huge  sabots  of  Mere  Catherine  made  short  work  of  the 
splinters.  Following  in  her  Brobdingnagian  footsteps, 
Juliette's  small  feet  took  no  hurt. 

A  long,  low  house  rose  up  before  them.  Its  rows  of 
barred  basement  windows  indicated  an  extensive  cellarage. 
Many  of  the  windows  were  broken,  and  some  of  the  ground- 
floor  shutters  had  been  wrenched  off.  Shattered  furniture 
was  thrown  about  in  confusion,  shrubs  and  rose  trees  had 
been  ruined,  broken  bottles  were  here,  there,  and  every- 
where. And  as  a  slight  sound  of  astonishment  came  from 
Juliette,  the  priest  having  mounted  some  red-brick  steps 
and  entered  after  his  guide  at  an  open  hall  door,  the  old 
woman,  to  whom  silence  was  evidently  a  sore  penance, 
glanced  back  at  the  young  one  and  said  to  her  in  a  whis- 
per: 

"This  is  the  Chateau  Malakoff.  Perhaps  you  remem- 
ber? .  .  .  And  all  those  broken  bottles.  .  .  .  The  soldiers 
drank  the  wine.  ..." 

Then  she  hung  her  old  white-capped  head,  and  hurried 
after  the  Father,  finishing  the  last  decade  of  the  Rosary  as 
she  went.  Juliette  and  Breagh  would  have  waited  in  the 
square  hall  on  which  the  front  door  opened,  but  from  tke 
landing  immediately  above  the  master  of  the  house  looked 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  509 

back  frowning,  and  imperatively  beckoned  them  to 
ascend. 

They  went  upstairs. 

The  door  of  the  death  chamber  stood  open.  From  within, 
came  the  murmuring  sound  of  the  priest's  voice.  Red- 
eyed  servants  knelt  in  prayer  about  the  threshold.  The 
master  of  the  house  was  just  within  the  door.  His  square 
black  head  and  vigorous  shoulders  looked  angry  and  wrath- 
ful. Old  Catherine  whispered  to  Juliette  as  she  beckoned 
her  to  kneel  beside  her : 

"It  is  his  wife,  Madame  Benoit.  .  .  .  They  were  only 
married  a  year ! ' ' 

Then  she  clashed  her  great  Rosary  and  joined  in  the 
prayers  vigorously,  while  the  thin  crying  of  a  baby  in  an 
adjoining  chamber  pierced  the  sudden,  deep,  profound 
silence  that  fell  upon  all  present  when  the  priest  elevated 
the  Host.  A  little  later  she  broke  down  again,  and  hissed 
in  Juliette's  ear  that  Madame  was  dying,  that  the  baby 
had  been  born  too  soon,  because  the  mother  had  been 
frightened  by  the  Prussians  .  .  .  that  M.  le  Cure  would 
give  the  Holy  Oils  after  administering  the  Viaticum.  And 
then  in  a  gray  pool  of  quiet  that  ensued  some  moments 
later,  a  woman's  voice  cried  out  with  astonishment  and 
terror  and  anger  in  it : 

"Mon  mari!  .  .  .  Mon  mari!  .  .  .  Au  secours!  .  .  . 
Les  Prussiens " 

And  the  cry  broke  off  short  with  a  horrible  suddenness ; 
there  was  a  momentary  confusion,  and  then  the  priest 
came  out,  looking  stern  and  sorrowful.  He  opened  the 
door  widely,  beckoning  in  several  of  the  women.  And 
Juliette,  rising  to  make  way  for  him,  saw  the  wavering 
flames  of  tapers  burning  on  either  side  of  a  Crucifix  on  a 
white-draped  table,  and  the  figure  of  the  house  master, 
with  a  face  of  ashen  grayness  turned  toward  her,  leaning 
over  a  white  bed,  clasping  something  even  whiter  in  a  des- 
perate embrace.  Only  two  great  hair  plaits  that  flowed 
over  the  bosom  of  the  dead  woman  glittered  like  solid 
bands  of  burnished  copper  in  the  wavering  candlelight. 
And  Dawn  crept  in  through  the  open  window,  with  the 
scent  of  the  crushed  and  trampled  roses,  and  the  smell  of 
wine  spilled  and  staling,  and  the  uneasy  twittering  of 
frightened  birds. 

And  then — they  were  picking  their  way  over  the  broken 


510  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

glass-covered  gravel  walk,  and  the  priest,  released  from  the 
obligation  of  silence,  was  eagerly  asking  for  more  particu- 
lars of  the  death  of  my  Cousin  Boisset. 

' '  For  the  villagers  of  Petit  Plappeville  are  hiding  in  the 
quarry  of  Seulvent.  They  will  not  return  until  the  Prus- 
sians have  left  the  neighborhood;  they  have  learned  what 
they  have  to  expect  from  these  men  when  they  are  full  of 
wine.  .  .  .  We  will  stop  as  we  pass,  and  tell  them  what  has 
happened.  .  .  .  Then  you  had  better  come  back  with  me  to 
my  presbytery.  The  soldiers  have  not  left  us  much,  but 
there  will  be  coffee  and  bread!" 

"But  for  me,"  said  Mere  Catherine,  clumping  along 
stoutly,  ' '  there  would  not  be  even  bread  and  coffee.  But  I 
have  my  hiding  holes  of  which  I  tell  nobody.  And  as  Mon- 
sieur le  Cure  did  not  know,  he  could  not  say  where  they 
were ! ' ' 

That  was  a  pleasant  meal  in  the  little  deal-shelved  study 
that  had  somehow  escaped  when  the  presbytery  was  turned 
upside  down.  It  stood  next  the  church,  a  little  ancient 
plain  stone  building  with  a  square  belfry  tower  and  a  spire 
covered  in  with  blackened  slating,  and  two  recumbent 
effigies  of  the  twelfth  century,  that  were  dear  to  the  good 
Cure's  heart.  After  dejeuner  he  explained  that  he  was 
going  to  visit  these  treasured  relics  for  the  purpose  of  as- 
certaining whether  they  had  suffered  damage  at  the  Ger- 
mans' hands. 

He  carried  a  basket  with  him  when  he  trotted  away  on 
his  errand.  P.  C.  Breagh,  as  he  leaned  by  the  open  case- 
ment of  the  little  ground-floor  study,  rather  wondered  why 
it  should  contain  a  corked  bottle  and  a  biggish  loaf  of 
bread. 

Juliette  had  gone  to  help  Catherine  restore  order  in  the 
kitchen.  The  young  man 's  hand  was  in  his  trousers  pocket 
as  he  wondered,  staring  after  the  stout  retreating  figure  in 
its  cassock  of  rusty  black.  Suddenly  he  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation, and  pulled  out  the  hand  with  something  shining 
in  it.  The  piece  of  gold  given  him  by  Juliette. 

He  put  a  hand  on  the  sill,  and  was  out  at  the  window 
in  time  to  see  the  priest  unlock  the  heavy  sunken  door  that 
led  into  the  belfry  tower,  and  vanish  into  the  dusk  of  the 
sacred  place.  He  followed,  to  find  the  Cure  struggling 
with  a  heavy  ladder  that  led  up  to  a  trap  hole  in  the  huge- 
beamed,  plastered  ceiling  of  the  belfry — a  ladder  that  was 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  511 

evidently  seldom  shifted  from  its  cobwebbed  place  against 
the  whitewashed  wall. 

' '  Couldn  't  I  do  that  ?  I  'm  a  good  deal  stronger  than  you 
are.  .  .  .  Halloa !  .  .  .  Lucky  I  was  there ! ' ' 

P.  C.  Breagh  had  thoughtlessly  spoken  in  English,  and 
the  priest,  who  had  not  seen  him  enter,  had  nearly  dropped 
the  ladder.  He  said  quite  reproachfully,  as  the  young  man 
caught  and  steadied  the  ponderous  bit  of  timber: 

"Why  have  you  followed  me?  Is  it  that  you  wish  to 
speak  to  me  privately?  If  so,  pray  do  not  do  so  in  your 
English,  which  is  sufficiently  like  German  to  give  me  an 
unpleasant  agitation  of  the  nerves!" 

P.  C.  Breagh  explained,  exhibiting  the  golden  coin,  that 
it  had  been  given  him  by  Mademoiselle  to  secure  a  Mass. 

"But  certainly  she  shall  have  a  Mass.  Though  five 
francs  will  be  more  than  sufficient.  Retain  the  coin,  Mon- 
sieur, until  I  can  find  the  necessary  francs  of  change.  You 
see,  we  are  poor  in  this  neighborhood  ...  it  is  to  be  ex- 
pected ! ' '  The  good  Cure  smiled,  and  added :  "As  you  see 
me,  I  am  rich  compared  with  many  of  my  confreres — even 
richer  than  some  of  my  superiors.  Therefore,  if  you  will 
describe  to  me  the  features  of  the  priest  who  read  the 
Office,  it  may  be  arranged  with  more  propriety  that  he  shall 
offer  Mass."  He  added,  seeing  the  young  man  hesitate: 
"Recall  his  features.  Describe  his  person,  if  you 
can!"  .  .  . 

P.  C.  Breagh  recalled  and  described.  When  he  had  done, 
the  Cure  said,  in  a  tone  of  quiet  conviction : 

"That  priest  will  not  need  Mademoiselle's  five  francs! 
.  .  .  And  he  is  not  only  my  superior.  .  .  .  He  ranks  above 
the  angels.  .  .  .  Monsieur  has  spoken  face  to  face  with  a 
glorious  Saint  of  God ! ' ' 

Something  like  an  electric  shock  tingled  from  the  roots 
of  P.  C.  Breagh 's  hair  down  his  spine,  and  passed  out  by 
way  of  his  heels  into  the  worn  flagstones.  He  tried  to 
speak,  but  his  palate  and  tongue  were  stiff.  The  priest 
went  on : 

"Upon  earth  he  was  the  Cure  of  Ars.  As  a  Catholic, 
Monsieur  has  learned  of  him.  But  that  he  foretold  this 
War,  possibly  Monsieur  does  not  know  ?  .  .  .  A  year  before 
his  holy  death.  .  .  .  Since  it  has  happened  .  .  .  this  War 
that  the  holy  Cure  prophesied,  he  has  revisited  the  earthly 
places  where  he  prayed  and  labored  and  suffered.  .  .  .  He 


512  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

has  succored  the  wounded.  .  .  .  He  has  appeared,  just  as 
he  was  when  alive,  to  the  dying,  and  cheered  and  consoled 
them  so  that  they  have  departed  in  joy  and  peace.  .  .  . 
In  the  world  this  will  not  be  credited.  It  does  not  matter ! 
.  .  .  "What  matters  is,  that  those  who  perhaps  asked  the 
Saint  of  Ars  to  intercede  for  them  in  their  hour  of  des- 
perate need  have  received  proof  that  in  heaven,  where  he 
now  dwells,  he  is  still  what  he  would  have  wished  to  be: 
a  worker  on  behalf  of  souls.  .  .  .  He  said  this  to  me,  twelve 
years  ago,  with  that  smile  that  the  good  God  had  given  him, 
to  make  poor  doubters  sure  that  He  Himself  will  one  day 
smile  on  them  in  heaven " 

He  stopped  and  wiped  his  face  with  a  handkerchief  that 
was  unaffectedly  a  blue  duster,  and,  noticing  the  sweat 
that  had  started  on  the  other's  face,  interrupted  himself 
to  cry: 

"But  Monsieur  is  still  holding  that  heavy  ladder!  .  .  . 
How  could  I  be  so  forgetful!  .  .  .  No!  it  is  not  to  be  re- 
placed against  the  wall.  It  is  to  be  attached  by  the  rings 
in  the  uprights  to  those  hooks  at  the  edge  of  that  trap- 
door. .  .  .  Since  Monsieur  has  been  favored  with  a  vision 
of  the  Saint  of  Ars,  he  is  worthy  of  all  trust  and  confidence. 
Let  Monsieur  but  fix  the  ladder  while  I  turn  the  key  in 
the  door,  and  then  he  shall  see  a  pigeon  that  I  keep  in  the 
belfry  tower ! ' ' 

And  the  good  man  bustled  to  the  door  and  locked  it,  and 
then  came  back  to  test  the  steadiness  of  the  ladder,  and 
mounted  with  asthmatic  wheezings  and  much  display  of 
darned  socks  and  venerable  carpet  slippers,  and  tapped 
three  times  at  the  trapdoor. 

It  was  lifted  at  the  signal,  and  P.  C.  Breagh  beheld  the 
gaunt  and  sunburnt  face  of  a  French  Cuirassier,  peering 
down  out  of  the  gloom  of  the  spire  that  was  faintly  lighted 
by  delicate  lines  of  morning  sunshine,  gilding  the  upper 
edges  of  the  shingle  boards  that  roofed  it  in. 

' '  Thanks,  thanks,  my  Father ! ' '  the  Cuirassier  muttered, 
as  the  bottle  of  coffee  and  the  loaf  were  handed  up  into 
his  eager,  shaking  hands. 

"Did  you  sleep?"  the  priest  asked  him,  and  the  soldier 
answered  in  the  affirmative,  adding  that  he  had  been  awak- 
ened by  footsteps  in  the  church  below  him  at  the  earliest 
break  of  day. 

Said  the  Cure : 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  513 

"My  child,  it  was  I.  A  member  of  my  parish  was  dying 
— I  came  to  the  church  to  take  the  Blessed  Sacrament  from 
the  Tabernacle.  ...  I  forgot  that  you  would  probably 
awaken  and  suppose  that  your  presence  here  had  been  be- 
trayed !  .  .  .  But  all  is  well !  and  a  cart  of  brushwood  will 
stop  before  the  presbytery  this  evening  and  carry  more 
than  its  load  when  it  is  driven  on.  It  is  going  to  a  farm 
near  Audun — from  there  you  will  be  able  to  escape  into 
Luxembourg,  and  from  thence  rejoin  the  Army  when  your 
wounds  are  sufficiently  healed.  t  It  is  said  that  the  Army  of 
Chalons,  with  the  Duke  of  Magenta  and  the  Emperor,  now 
marches  north  from  Rheims  toward  Sedan. ' '  He  added  as 
white  teeth  flashed  in  the  dark  face,  and  the  sullen  eyes 
gleamed  scornfully:  "You  will  please  yourself  as  to  serv- 
ing again!  You  have  already  suffered  greatly  for  our 
country ! ' ' 

The  soldier  said  roughly: 

' '  I  would  die  for  her  with  a  good  heart !  .  .  .  But  I  will 
not  fight  again  for  this  Emperor  and  his  Marshal,  by  whom 
France  has  been  sold  and  betrayed ! ' ' 

""Well,  well!  .  .  .  Au  revoir,  my  child,  and  may  Our 
Lord  protect  you,"  said  the  priest,  sighing  and  beginning 
a  puffing  retreat  down  the  ladder.  "Shut  the  trapdoor 
down  carefully,  keep  perfect  silence,  and  remember  that 
it  is  very  dangerous  to  smoke.  The  curls  of  vapor  can  be 
seen  rising  between  the  shingles.  I  observed  it  when  we 
had  workmen  here  in  Spring!" 

Then  he  descended,  and  with  P.  C.  Breagh's  aid  put  back 
the  ladder,  unlocked  the  belfry  tower  door,  and  they  went 
out  into  the  clear  bright  autumn  air. 

"That  soldier  came  last  night,"  the  Cure  whispered,  as 
they  stopped  to  lock  the  door  with  the  heavy  iron  key  that 
was  corroded  with  rust  where  use  did  not  maintain  its 
brightness.  "He  was  taken  prisoner  in  yesterday's  battle, 
found  to  be  wounded,  disarmed,  and  left  to  shift  for  him- 
self, with  others  in  the  same  condition.  One  of  them — in 
whose  company  this  man  was — had  concealed  a  pistol,  and 
had  the  daring  to  attempt  the  life  of  M.  de  Bismarck — or 
General  Moltke — I  am  not  sure  which !  But  the  shot  missed 
its  mark,  and  instantly  all  those  who  had  seen  it  fired,  with 
others  who  knew  nothing,  were  massacred  in  cold  blood. 
This  man  by  a  miracle — escaped!  .  .  .  Plow,  I  know  not! 
He  says  he  fell  into  a  pit  full  of  dead,  and  lay  there  ex- 


514  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

peeling  to  be  buried  with  them,  until  the  darkness  came 
to  cover  his  resurrection  from  the  grave." 

They  went  back  into  the  presbytery.  The  priest  went  to 
look  for  the  fifteen  francs  of  change  out  of  Juliette's  gold 
piece.  She  came  out  of  the  kitchen,  from  which  Catherine's 
bedroom  opened,  and  showed  herself  freshly  laved,  and 
attired  in  spotless  neatness,  her  face  no  longer  swollen 
with  weeping  and  weariness,  her  superb  hair  brushed  to 
dull  cloudy  silkiness,  and  newly  coiled  upon  the  summit  of 
her  little  queenly  head. 

Her  eyes  shone  brilliant  and  hard  as  blue  jewels,  as  she 
said  to  her  friend  in  a  low,  vibrating  tone  of  excitement : 

"Mere  Catherine  says  that  yesterday  a  French  prisoner 
tried  to  shoot  M.  de  Bismarck,  and  nearly  succeeded.  .  .  . 
See  you  well,  I  would  like  to  meet  that  man ! ' ' 

"Why,  Mademoiselle?" 

' '  To  kiss  the  hand  of  one  so  brave,  Monsieur ! ' ' 

He  regarded  her  in  silence.  She  went  on  almost  with 
hardihood,  throwing  back  her  head,  and  looking  at  him 
with  eyes  that  gleamed  between  their  narrowed  lids. 

' '  See  you  well — if  I  were  only  beautiful,  I  would  give  my 
beauty  to  the  man  who  saved  France!" 

Her  hearer 's  heart  began  to  pound  violently,  and  a  dim- 
ness like  mist  came  before  his  sight.  Through  it  he  was 
aware  of  long  eyes  that  gleamed  like  wonderful  azure 
jewels,  and  a  small  red  mouth  that  pleaded  for  the  soul  of 
P.  C.  Breagh.  .  .  .  He  saw  that  the  underlip  was  like  the 
bud  of  a  pomegranate,  and  that  the  curve  of  the  upper 
disclosed  teeth  as  white  as  curd.  .  .  .  Then  he  heard  the 
silver  voice  say  with  a  sigh  in  it : 

"But  I  am  not  beautiful  .  .  .  not  even  pretty.  Ah, 
Monsieur,  if  I  but  were !  .  .  . " 

She  was  hating  herself  as  she  saw  his  look  respond  to 
hers.  As  the  amber  sparks  in  his  gray  eyes  leaped  into  fire 
and  his  under  jaw  thrust  out  savagely,  she  thought : 

"There  is  something  of  my  mother  in  me — more  than  a 
little !  How  dared  I  scorn  her — I,  who  can  speak  and  look 
like  this?"  And  she  repeated  with  a  plaintive,  lingering 
inflection :  "  If  I  were  ...  if  I  but  were ! ' ' 

For  the  primal  Eve  is  in  all  women,  believe  me.  When 
the  first  Woman  bowed  herself  in  her  apron  of  leaves  to 
strike  out  between  the  lump  of  iron  ore  and  the  flint  flake, 
the  spark  that,  blown  within  its  nest  of  dried  moss,  begat 


THE   MAN    OF   IRON  515 

Fire,  she  laughed  and  then  wept ;  for  she  remembered  how 
she  had  learned  of  old  from  the  Serpent,  wise  Teacher  of 
guile  and  evil!  to  kindle  the  hot  spark  of  Desire  in  the 
hearts  of  men. 

This  knowledge  would  have  come  to  Juliette  as  a  legacy 
from  Eve,  her  earliest  ancestress,  even  had  she  not  been 
born  of  Adelaide. 

Meanwhile  Breagh  saw  nothing  but  the  little  red  mouth 
with  the  subtly  wooing  smile  on  it  ...  the  gleaming  jewels 
that  were  shadowed  by  their  covert  of  black  lashes.  .  .  . 
Her  will  bent  heavily  on  his,  weakened  by  his  worship  of 
her.  In  another  instant  he  would  have  asked  what  she 
wanted  him  to  do. 

But  the  heavy  footsteps  of  the  priest,  clumping  on  the 
little  crazy  stair,  recalled  Breagh  from  the  rapids  toward 
which  he  had  been  drifting.  In  another  moment  the  Cure 
came  into  the  room.  He  had  a  knotted  blue  handkerchief 
in  his  hand,  which  weighed  somewhat  heavily.  He  said 
with  a  good-humored  smile  as  he  untied  one  of  the  knots, 
and  took  out  a  little  pile  of  silver: 

"Here  behold  my  savings  bank!  Your  fifteen  francs, 
Mademoiselle ! ' ' 

He  was  earnest  to  count  them  out  and  return  them  to 
her,  and  she  was  as  earnest  that  the  coins  should  not  be 
given  back.  .  .  .  But  she  could  not  deny  her  poverty  when 
the  good  man  charged  her  with  it,  saying : 

"Accept  the  return  of  this  money  as  a  mortification 
salutary  for  the  health  of  your  soul!" 

Then  he  tied  up  the  handkerchief  and  stuffed  it  away 
under  his  cassock,  and  asked  them: 

"Where  are  you  journeying  together,  my  children?  I 
have  a  reason  for  wishing  to  know!" 

He  had  turned  to  P.  C.  Breagh,  still  thrilling  with  the 
memory  of  that  strange  look  Juliette  had  cast  upon  him. 
The  young  man  answered,  glowing  through  his  sunbrown : 

"Wherever  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard  is  desirous  to  go!" 

The  Cure  pursed  his  mouth  and  turned  to  Juliette ;  and 
then  sabots  clumped  in  the  passage,  and  a  cracked  voice 
cried  from  the  door: 

"  'Mademoiselle'  and  'Mademoiselle,'  when  she  is  no 
more  'Mademoiselle'  than  I  am!  .  .  .  Why  not  'Madame'? 
.  .  .  Call  things  and  folks  by  their  right  names ! ' ' 

There   was   a   terrible   pause.     Juliette   was   enduring 


516  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

agonies.  The  Cure  pursed  his  mouth,  and  rounded  his  mild 
eyes  behind  their  iron-rimmed  spectacles.  Mere  Catherine 
went  on  triumphantly : 

"It  was  her  father's  dearest  wish  that  she  should  marry 
his  old  friend's  only  son.  She  told  me  that  when  we  were 
washing  up  the  coffee  bowls,  out  in  the  kitchen  there.  .  .  . 
When  the  Prussians  came  to  France,  she  went  to  Belgium 
with  the  young  man's  mother.  'To  celebrate  my  mar- 
riage/ she  told  me,  'because  M.  What's-his-name  was 
there!'  ' 

P.  C.  Breagh  had  a  sensation  as  of  a  weight  of  cold  lead 
in  the  stomach.  His  feet  seemed  shod  with  lead,  his  arms 
hung  down  inertly.  His  tongue  might  have  been  turned 
to  lead,  so  impossible  was  utterance.  "Married!  .  .  ." 
kept  on  ticking  inside  his  head.  "Married!  ..."  and 
with  maddening  iteration,  slowly  as  the  clapper  of  a  tolling 
bell.  "You  knew  it  .  .  .  She  knew  it  .  .  .  Married  all  the 
time!" 

His  dull  stare  was  set  upon  the  face  that  had  smiled  on 
him  so  wooingly.  It  was  snow-white  now,  and  the  eyes 
were  hidden  beneath  their  heavy  fringes  of  black.  The 
eyebrows  were  knitted,  the  pale  lips  set  rigidly.  The  Cure 
looked  at  them  a  moment,  and  then  asked,  plump  and 
plain : 

"You  are  really  married?  My  good  Mere  Catherine  is 
not  deceiving  herself?" 

Juliette  shut  down  her  stern  upper  lip  upon  its  little 
neighbor,  and  raised  clear,  sorrowful  eyes. 

"As  she  says,  I  went  to  Belgium  to  celebrate  my  mar- 
riage. Now  that  I  have  returned,  I  shall  await  my  husband 
here  in  France.  My  father  esteemed  him  highly.  He  is  M. 
Charles  Tessier.  He  lives  in  the  Eue  de  Provence,  in  the 
town  of  Versailles." 

Whether  the  good  Cure  scented  the  quibble,  we  are  not 
at  all  inclined  to  ask.  We  are  concerned  with  P.  C.  Breagh, 
whose  enchanted  castle  had  crashed  into  dust  and  brick- 
bats. One  glance  at  his  face,  sharp  as  a  wedge  of  cheese, 
and  bleached  under  its  wholesome  freckles  and  sun-tan, 
told  his  Infanta  what  ruin  she  had  wrought.  But  if  he  had 
seized  and  shaken  her  and  cried:  "You  lie!"  she  would 
have  lied  again,  defiantly.  Was  she  not  married,  when  her 
Colonel  had  believed  so.  ...  She  would  be,  from  now,  in 
thought  and  word,  the  wife  of  Charles  Tessier.  Ah, 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  517! 

Heaven !  .  .  .  The  thought  was  more  unwelcome  than  ever 
it  had  been. 

Ah,  Heaven!  if  that  dear  dead  father  could  but  have 
known  this  brave  young  Englishman.  Would  he  have  been 
in  such  haste  to  break  his  daughter's  heart?  .  .  .  And — 
ah,  Heaven! — again,  if  this  burning  of  her  boats  meant 
parting,  how  could  one  live  without  one 's  comrade  now  ? 

He  was  so  simple,  and  Juliette  adored  simplicity.  He 
was  so  straightforward  and  honest,  one  could  not  guard 
the  heart.  When  he  had  thought  her  dead,  how  piteously 
he  had  cried  to  her,  ' '  Juliette !  Juliette !  .  .  . "  When  she 
had  crept  from  under  the  bed  the  lance  had  plunged 
through,  barely  missing  her,  and  Breagh  had  dived  at  her 
and  caught  her  up  and  hugged  her,  despite  her  terror  and 
misery,  she  had  known  a  wonderful  thrill.  .  .  . 

' '  Mine ! ' '  those  fierce  young  arms  conveyed,  as  they  had 
strained  her  to  his  broad  breast.  Was  it  wicked,  was  it 
unnatural  in  one  so  newly  bereaved  of  the  noblest  and 
dearest  of  all  fathers,  to  have  been  taken  by  storm  in  those 
moments  of  desolation — to  have  dreamed  since  then  of  the 
rapture  of  being  able  to  answer:  "Yes,  yes!  .  .  .  Your 
very  own!  .  .  .  Never  anyone's  but  yours.  .  .  ."? 

Alas !  if  Juliette  had  been  unnatural  in  yielding  to  such 
thoughts,  was  she  not  now  punished?  She  had  dealt  with 
her  own  slight  arm  the  blow  that  had  shattered  the  fabric 
of  her  dreams  as  well  as  his.  .  .  .-  She  would  never  again 
see  that  light  in  the  eyes  of  Monica's  brother;  never — 
against  all  the  accepted  traditions  ruling  the  pre-matri- 
monial  affairs  of  a  young  French  girl  of  good  family — be 
hugged  in  that  rude,  possessive,  British  way.  But  what 
loneliness,  what  terror,  what  danger  had  driven  her  into 
the  arms  that  enfolded.  .  .  .  Besides,  she  would  atone  by 
marrying  Charles  Tessier.  A  tepid  future  passed  by  the 
side  of  the  young  cloth  manufacturer  extended  before  her. 
.  .  .  She  could  not  restrain  a  shudder  at  the  thought,  even 
while  she  mentally  renewed  her  vow  that,  for  the  sake  of 
him  who  had  planned  it,  she  would  embrace  such  a  future 
with  resignation.  ...  It  flashed  upon  her  now,  with  blind- 
ing clearness,  that  not  only  must  the  future  be  embraced, 
but  the  man.  .  .  . 

"Tear  the  picture.  .  .  .  Forget  the  dream!"  The  words; 
of  de  Bayard's  letter  came  back  to  her. 


518  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Ah,  well ! — she  had  done  with  pictures  and  dreams.  .  .  . 
For  her,  realities.  The  comrade  looked  as  though  Reality 
had  hit  him  smashingly.  She  barely  recognized  his  cheer- 
ful voice  as  he  answered  to  some  leading  question  put  by 
the  Cure: 

"I  am  ready  and  willing  to  act  as  escort  to  Madame. 
It  would  be  risky  for  her  to  attempt  to  return  alone  to 
Versailles. ' ' 

She  tried  to  meet  his  sorrowful  gray  eyes  and  succeeded. 
She  bent  her  little  head  and  said  with  an  admirable  as- 
sumption of  newly  wedded  dignity : 

"Monsieur  Breagh  is  very  amiable.  I  will  accept  his 
offer  with  gratitude.  When  my  husband  learns  of  his  great 
goodness,  he  too  will  thank  him.  Alas !  at  this  moment  my 
poor  Charles  is  far  away !  .  .  . " 

She  sought  for  a  tear,  and  found  more  than  she  had 
expected.  For  a  whole  thunderstorm  of  big,  bright  drops 
burst  from  those  wonderful  eyes. 

She  fell  into  a  Windsor  armchair  polished  by  the  worthy 
Cure's  stout  person,  and  dropped  her  arms  upon  the  table, 
and  her  head  on  them,  and  sobbed,  sobbed,  sobbed.  .  .  . 
The  priest  beckoned  Breagh  from  the  study.  They  were 
going  to  make  arrangements  for  the  journey.  Horrible 
Mere  Catherine,  cause  of  all  the  misery,  came  and  cackled 
over  the  prone,  abandoned  head.  .  .  .  Madame  was  going 
to  start  early  to-morrow  morning.  .  .  .  Allowing  for  the 
disorganization  of  the  railway  service,  Madame  would 
reach  Versailles  by  noon  of  the  same  day.  The  husband  of 
Madame  would  presently  arrive  to  find  her  waiting  for  him. 
Heaven  would  shed  blessings  on  their  joyous  reunion.  Let 
Madame  take  her  occasion  of  soliciting  the  patronage  of 
St.  Christopher,  patron  of  all  travelers.  The  first  little 
male  cherub  that  should  bless  the  union  of  Madame  and 
Monsieur  would  naturally  be  christened  by  the  name  of  the 
good  Saint. 


LX 

THEY  drove  in  a  country  cart  to  Etain  over  roads  be- 
strewn for  the  most  part  with  the  debris  of  the  falling 
Empire,  and  there  caught  a  train  starting  for  Verdun.  It 
was  crammed  with  wounded  French  soldiers  lying  on 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  519 

straw  in  trucks  and  horse  boxes.  Women  jostled  one  an- 
other at  the  doors  of  these,  to  supply  the  poor  sufferers 
with  soup  and  fruit,  bread  and  coffee.  The  news  of  the 
retirement  of  Bazaine  upon  Metz  was  in  every  mouth,  al- 
though, thanks  to  the  cutting  by  Uhlans  of  the  telegraph 
line  between  Metz  and  Thionville,  the  Emperor  did  not 
receive  the  Marshal's  wire  until  the  22nd. 

The  Warlock  had  lost  no  time.  Already  the  blockade  of 
the  doomed  fortress  city  was  so  far  completed  that  only 
the  most  daring  French  scouts  were  able  to  worm  their  way 
through  the  enemy's  investing  lines. 

For,  even  as  the  octopus,  desirous  of  increasing  his  fam- 
ily, throws  off  a  spare  tentacle  which  becomes  another  octo- 
pus, from  the  First  and  Second  Armies  of  United  Germany 
had  been  evolved  a  Fourth  Army  of  Six  Corps  under  the 
command  of  the  Crown  Prince  of  Saxony,  whose  Advance 
of  Guard  Cavalry  were  already  over  the  Meuse. 

The  Army  of  the  Prussian  Crown  Prince  had  traversed 
the  roads  south  of  Toul  and  entered  the  basin  of  the  Or- 
nain.  The  King  of  Prussia,  with  Bismarck  and  Moltke, 
had  started  to  march  on  Paris  through  the  dusty  white 
plains  of  Champagne. 

His  Great  Headquarters  had  already  reached  Bar-le-Duc. 
One  of  his  scouting  squadrons  of  Uhlans  had  captured  a 
French  courier  at  Commercy.  Thus  Moltke  had  learned 
that  the  mounted  regiments  of  Canrobert's  Corps  had  been 
left  behind  at  the  Camp  of  Chalons,  and  that  Paris  was 
being  placed  in  a  state  of  defense  to  resist  an  investment 
expected  hourly. 

On  this  very  day  the  vast  Camp  had  been  abandoned, 
the  Imperial  pavilions,  the  mess  houses,  officers'  quarters 
and  kitchens  were  blazing  merrily,  the  lines  of  rustic 
bar  agues  usually  occupied  by  the  troops  were  marked  out 
by  crackling  hedges  of  fire.  While  MacMahon,  at  his  camp 
near  Rheims,  was  torn  between  Ministerial  orders  emanat- 
ing from  the  Empress,  insisting  on  the  immediate  relief  of 
Bazaine,  and  his  own  conviction  that  the  order  of  march 
should  be  back  by  the  directest  route  to  defend  the  men- 
aced capital. 

Said  the  Man  of  Iron  to  Koon,  whiffing  a  huge  cigar  as 
the  steady  downpour  of  rain  swirled  down  the  gutters  and 
drenched  the  Bodyguard  on  duty  outside  the  King's 
Headquarters  at  Bar-le-Duc : 


520  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"We  barricade  the  straight  road  that  leads  to  Metz. 
Will  the  fellow  face  the  risks  of  a  circuitous  march  leading 
him  near  the  Belgian  frontier?  I  should  be  personally 
obliged  to  him  to  decide  quickly.  .  .  .  One  does  not  desire 
to  linger  in  a  Capua  as  dismal  as  this." 

Bismarck-Bohlen  brought  him  a  telegram.  He  was  about 
to  open  it  when  the  Warlock  hastily  entered  the  sitting 
room  that  served  as  ante-chamber,  flourishing  a  copy  of 
Le  Temps,  issued  in  Paris  on  the  previous  day. 

"A  Uhlan  of  the  Advance  has  got  me  this  paper.  He 
took  it  from  the  person  of  a  respectable  bourgeois  at  whose 
house  in  Cligny  he  and  his  comrades  called  to  drink  a  drop 
of  wine.  Judging  it  a  welcome  gift  to  me,  the  brave  fellow 
rode  here  to  bring  it." 

"There  is  wine  of  another  kind  on  those  pages,"  said 
the  Minister,  pointing  to  the  journal  with  a  smile. 

Moltke  read  from  the  blood-stained  paper : 

"  'The  speeches  delivered  yesterday  at  the  Chamber  are 
unanimous  in  the  declaration  that  the  French  people  will 
be  disgraced  forever  if  the  Army  of  the  Rhine  be  not  re- 
lieved. The  dispatches  received  during  the  sitting  of  yes- 
terday's Privy  Council,  from  the  Prefecture  of  Police,  the 
Ministry  of  War  and  of  the  Interior,  were  of  a  nature  to 
cause  apprehension  of  the  keenest.  But  the  disposition  of 
the  people  of  Paris  can  be  ascertained  by  any  person  whose 
ears  are  not  stuffed  with  Court  cotton-wool.  Do  not  these 
shouts  of  "Dethronement!" — these  cries  of  "A  Republic! 
A  Republic!"  become  louder  every\  day?'  ' 

He  added: 

"This  bears  out  the  text  of  Palikao's  intercepted  wire  of 
yesterday  to  the  Emperor;  and  the  second  from  the  Em- 
press, virtually  saying:  'Abandon  Bazaine  and  Paris  is 
in  revolt!'  ..." 

Commented  the  Minister : 

"The  Empress-Regent  talks  like  a  young  woman. 
Palikao  argues  like  an  old  one — the  speakers  in  the  Cham- 
ber gabble  like  a  pack  of  old  gossips,  not  one  of  whom  looks 
beyond  the  end  of  her  own  nose.  Paris  was  in  revolution 
at  the  beginning  of  August.  She  will  be  a  full-blown  Re- 
public before  Christmas,  whether  Bazaine  be  abandoned 
or  not." 

Moltke  said,  helping  himself  from  his  silver  snuffbox : 

"MacMahon  has  not  the  courage  to  resist  a  consensus  of 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  521 

quackers.  He  will  march  east  and  uncover  the  Paris  road. 
I  may  say  I  had  already  drawn  out  private  tables  of 
marches  which  would  thwart  him  in  any  case.  What  have 
you  there  ?  A  wire  in  Secret  Code  ? ' ' 

Bismarck  answered: 

' '  It  is  in  Russian,  with  which  language  the  sender  knows 
me  to  be  acquainted.  He  is  an  agent  of  our  Secret  Service, 
who  combines  the  trade  of  wool  stapler  with  the  profession 
of  notary,  and  holds  the  post  of  Sub-Prefect  in  the  town  of 
Bethel.  He  communicates  by  private  wire  that  the  Em- 
peror has  telegraphed  the  Prince  Imperial  that  the  junc- 
tion with  Bazaine  will  not  be  attempted,  and  that  the 
march  of  the  Army  of  Chalons  will  be  directed  upon  Sedan. 
He  states  that  when  he  quitted  Rheims  to-day  the  Imperial 
Headquarters  had  left  for  Tourteron.  ..." 

"Ei,  ei!  Is  he  trustworthy?"  asked  the  "Warlock,  put- 
ting away  the  silver  box. 

The  Minister  answered  succinctly: 

' '  The  intelligence  he  supplies  is  usually  worth  the  money 
he  is  paid  for  it." 

He  went  on : 

"He  has  got  into  touch  with  the  Roumanian  Straz,  who 
has  not  received  cash  for  some  dirty  work  he  did  in  July 
at  Sigmaringen,  and  who  judges  it  advisable — Napoleon 
Bonaparte  Grammont  &  Co.  being  insolvent — to  transfer 
his  services  to  the  opposite  firm.  .  .  .  He  adds  that  Straz 
possesses,  or  says  that  he  possesses,  free  access  to  the  Prince 
Imperial.  He  appears  to  think  our  interests  would  be 
served  by  kidnapping  the  boy." 

"Would  they?"  asked  Moltke. 

The  Minister  raised  his  shaggy  brows,  and  answered 
smilingly : 

"You  are  acquainted  with  the  Countess's  views  in  con- 
nection with  the  youngest  Bonaparte.  If  the  Queen  does 
not  want  him  to  hand  her  tea  and  comb  her  lap  dog,  why 
should  I  not  take  M.  Lulu  home  as  a  present  to  my  wife  ? ' ' 

"You  are  jesting!"  said  the  Warlock,  shaking  the  wise 
old  head  in  the  scratch  wig.  "You  have  told  this  stinking 
rogue  that  decent  German  men  make  not  war  upon  women 
or  children.  .  .  .  When  the  time  comes  that  we  are  guilty 
of  such  things,  United  Germany  will  be  near  her  fall. ' ' 

"Her  barometer  predicts  a  rise,"  said  the  Minister 
dryly,  "at  this  particular  moment." 


522  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"With  God's  help,  we  shall  fulfill  the  prediction!"  re- 
turned the  Warlock,  going  to  a  table  where  lay  spread  a 
map  on  a  comprehensive  scale  of  an  inch  to  a  mile.  "We 
will  talk  over  this  with  the  King,  when  the  Crown  Prince 
and  Von  Blumenthal  come  over  from  Ligny.  It  will  be 
wiser  to  delay  the  movement  on  Paris,  and  hit  this  weather 
cock  of  a  Marshal  with  all  our  forces.  So,  he  marches  his 
Army  on  the  Meuse!  So' of  .  .  ." 

And  he  hummed  a  bar  of  the  little  song  about  the  weep- 
ing flowers  and  the  shining  starlets,  as  he  set  the  mental 
machinery  in  motion  that  resulted  in  the  Grand  Right 
.Wheel. 


LXI 

THE  closed  shutters  of  the  Tessier  house  in  the  Rue  de 
Provence  gave  that  pleasant,  airy,  well-kept  residence 
standing  behind  its  high  garden  walls  of  stone-faced  brick, 
festooned  with  autumn-tinted  creepers,  an  unoccupied  and 
cheerless  air. 

Repeated  rings  at  the  bell  of  the  white-painted  gate  of 
wrought  iron  upon  the  right  of  the  heavy  porte-cochere 
topped  by  the  lozenged  archway,  elicited  a  caretaker  in  the 
person  of  the  wife  of  the  gardener-coachman,  who  cried  out 
joyfully  upon  recognizing  one  of  the  ringers,  and  broke 
into  a  spate  of  words: 

"Mademoiselle!  .  .  .  Madame  Charles!  A  thousand 
pardons  for  the  error !  But  a  return  so  unexpected.  Noth- 
ing is  ready.  ..."  She  queried,  her  eyes  becoming  circu- 
lar as  they  drank  in  the  fact  that  the  newly-married  wife 
of  her  master  had  arrived  in  company  of  a  strange  young 
gentleman  in  a  shabby  brown  suit  of  foreign  make,  and  a 
straw  hat  decidedly  the  worse  for  wear:  "Madame  Tes- 
sier has  not  accompanied  you?  ...  Or  Monsieur  Charles? 
.  .  .  Nothing  has  happened?"  Upon  being  assured  that 
her  employers  were  well,  and  still  in  Belgium,  she  raised 
her  eyes  piously,  and  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  "In  these 
days  such  terrible  things  happen!"  sighed  the  gardener- 
coachman's  wife.  "No  one  knows  who  the  Prussians  will 
not  kill  next!  .  .  .  Though,  what  with  the  soldiers  that 
have  gone  away — regiments  and  regiments  marching  with 
their  bands ! — and  the  guns — thousands  of  guns  rolling  and 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  523 

rolling! — one  would  say  that  France  possessed  enough 
men.  .  .  .  But  who  knows!  One  can  feel  the  fears  of  the 
people  like  a  dark  cloud  blackening  the  sky.  .  .  .  They 
say  that  at  Meudon  the  trees  have  been  cut  down  and 
trenches  dug,  and  beautiful  villas  blown  up  with  gun- 
powder that  the  Germans  may  not  live  in  them  when  they 
come.  Of  what  use,  then,  the  great  cannon  that  break  the 
windows  when  they  fire  them  from  the  Forts  of  Issy  and 
Meudon,  Vanvres  and  Mont  Valerien,  if  they  cannot  keep 
such  people  back?" 

She  had  looked  at  the  young  man  who  accompanied 
Madame  Charles  as  she  put  her  question.  He  answered, 
with  appreciation  of  the  shrewdness  prompting  the  ques- 
tion: 

"One  wishes  one  could  answer  that!  But  it  is  all  true 
about  the  trenches  and  so  on.  ...  All  the  main  roads  lead- 
ing north  and  west  and  east  from  Paris  have  been  cut  up 
in  the  same  way.  And  the  bridges  have  been  mined — but 
they  will  not  blow  them  up  yet.  They  will  wait  until  the 
Prussians  come!" 

"Grand  Dieu!  And  all  our  hospitals  here  are  full  of 
wounded  soldiers.  They  arrive  in  trains  or  wagons  every 
hour.  .  .  .  People  wait  at  the  railway  stations  and  at  the 
barriers  in  crowds  to  see  them.  Sometimes  one  cries  out: 
'My  'brother!'  or  'My  husband!' — or  'My  son!'  .  .  ." 

The  wide  mouth  of  the  little  woman  widened  in  a 
grimace  of  misery.  She  gulped  and  sniffed,  and  the  tears 
began  to  tumble  from  her  beady  black  eyes.  "My  brother 
Michel  has  been  killed !  .  .  .  My  sister  has  received  an 
official  letter  that  says  so.  Also  my  husband's  nephew, 
Jean  Jacques — the  dear  youth  who  served  Madame  Tessier 
so  faithfully.  .  .  .  Madame  Charles  must  remember  him 
going  about  the  house  in  his  striped  jacket,  cleaning  the 
silver  and  sweeping  and  polishing  the  parquet.  .  .  .  And 
now  my  poor  Potier,  whom  Madame  Charles  cannot  have 
forgotten.  ...  At  fifty  years  of  age,  he  has  been  called  to 
serve  again!" 

Her  poor  Potier  was  even  then  marching  with  Mac- 
Mahon's  hundred  thousand  toward  Montmedy  by  Mezieres, 
and  the  end  that  was  to  meet  him  there,  as  the  little  woman 
dried  her  eyes  with  her  blue  apron,  and  bestirred  herself  to 
welcome  one  whom  she  firmly  believed  to  be  her  young  mas- 
ter's wife. 


524  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

' '  No  luggage !  Madame  has  returned  without  luggage ! ' r 
she  commented  mentally,  as  the  driver  of  the  hack  vehicle 
that  had  brought  Madame  and  her  companion  from  the 
station  was  paid  and  jingled  away. 

Then  as  she  shut  the  outer  gate  and  locked  it  she  realized 
that  the  companion  of  Madame  Charles  was  a  foreigner. 
She  could  hear  the  pair  conversing  in  an  unknown  jargon 
as  they  stood  together  near  the  terrace  steps.  Upon  which 
the  perplexity  of  honest  Madame  Potier  was  banished  by 
an  effort  of  simple  reasoning.  The  strange  young  man 
would  be  a  Belgian — an  employee  of  M.  Charles.  M. 
Charles  had  determined,  all  the  world  knew,  to  engage  a 
resident  bookkeeper.  This  must  be  the  Belgian  bookkeeper 
who  had  accompanied  Madame.  For  his  manner  was  hum- 
ble to  dejectedness,  as  became  a  dependent,  and  he  looked 
at  Madame  with  extreme  wistfulness.  He  was  actually  say- 
ing: 

"This  means  good-bye,  I  suppose,  doesn't  it?  .  .  ." 

Juliette  returned,  with  her  heart  wavering  in  her  like  a 
wind-blown  taper  flame : 
;      "If  you  desire  it,  Monsieur,  of  course  it  is  good-bye!" 

He  perused  the  gravel  walk  with  an  appearance  of  great 
interest. 

It  was  extraordinary  that  neither  he  nor  Madame  had 
brought  any  luggage.  .  .  .  Madame  Potier  fairly  writhed 
with  curiosity  to  learn  the  reason  why.  She  could  restrain 
herself  no  longer.  She  cried,  madly  clashing  the  gate 
keys: 

"But  the  luggage,  Madame!  .  .  .  The  carriage  has 
driven  away  without  depositing  it.  "What  of  the  trunks, 
imperials,  portmanteaux,  bonnet  boxes  that  Madame  pos- 
sessed when  she  went  away?  ..." 

She  was  a  little,  voluble,  excitable  Frenchwoman,  with 
shiny  black  hair,  bright,  snapping  black  eyes,  and  a  hectic 
spot  in  the  center  of  each  cheek.  As  yet  her  environment 
had  not  brought  home  to  her  what  War  meant  in  reality. 
When  she  had  wept  for  her  brother  and  her  nephew  by 
marriage,  and  at  parting  with  her  husband,  she  had  re- 
lapsed into  her  accustomed  round  of  duties,  not  unpleas- 
antly varied  by  her  newer  responsibilities  as  guardian  of 
her  mistress's  empty  dwelling.  Like  many  other  excellent 
women  of  her  type,  she  could  not  read  or  write,  and  relied 
on  local  newrs  imparted  by  her  gossips  and  bits  of  intelli- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  523 

left  by  the  baker  with  his  bread  rolls,  or  served  by 
the  woman  who  brought  the  morning 's  milk. 

Now  Madame  Charles  turned  to  her  and  told  her : 

"The  boxes  and  imperials  are  left  behind  in  Belgium, 
dear  Madame  Potier.  As  for  the  articles  I  brought  with 
me,  they  have  been  torn  to  pieces  by  the  lancers  of  M.  de 
Bismarck.  Also  the  luggage  of  this  gentleman,  who  has, 
like  myself,  nothing  left  but  the  clothes  that  he  is  wearing. 
Thank  him,  for  had  he  not  protected  me,  I  should  never 
have  reached  this  house ! ' ' 

"Great  Heaven!"  Little  Madame  Potier  threw  her 
hands  and  eyes  heavenward.  "What  wretches!  What 
terrible  dangers  Madame  has  surmounted !  .  .  .  What  hor- 
rors one  hears  of! — what  miseries  and  sufferings!  .  .  . 
Death  is  everywhere.  .  .  .  One  would  say  it  was  the  end 
of  the  world!  But  still  there  is  hope,  is  not  there,  Ma- 
dame? .  .  .  Our  glorious  Army  ..." 

Juliette  turned  a  snow-white  face  upon  the  eager  woman, 
and  lifted  a  little,  tragic  hand.  She  said,  and  in  that  tone 
and  with  that  look  most  feared  and  dreaded  by  the  man 
who  loved  her : 

"Our  glorious  Army  has  been  betrayed  and  massacred! 
With  these  eyes  I  who  speak  to  you  have  seen  vast  tracts 
of  country  covered  with  the  slain ! ' ' 

Madame  Potier  winced  and  drew  herself  together.  Her 
black  eyes  glared.  The  red  spots  sank  out  of  her  sharp 
face.  And  Juliette  went  on : 

"I  traversed  one  of  these  huge  fields  of  carnage.  Many 
Germans  were  there — but  most  of  the  dead  were  our 
French  soldiers.  .  .  .  And  in  the  silence  you  heard  their 
blood  running,  and  the  earth  lapping  it  like  a  great  thirsty 
dog!  .  .  ." 

In  the  throat  of  the  other  woman,  listening,  an  hysterical 
knot  began  growing.  You  could  see  it  working  as  her  dry 
lips  twitched.  She  held  her  breath  as  though  to  keep  back 
a  scream. 

"I  sought  among  all  these  dead  men  for  my  father," 
said  Juliette.  "And  I  found  him!  .  .  .  His  dead  hand 
beckoned  me  from  a  mountain  of  corpses.  ...  I  would 
have  known  it  without  the  ring  that  he  always  wore.  .  .  . 
And  I  went  to  him  and  sat  beside  him,  and  asked  God  to 
let  me  die  also.  .  .  .  And  a  sword  seemed  to  cut  my  soul 
from  my  body.  ...  I  grew  cold — and  all  was  blackness 


526  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

about  me!  ...  I  felt  no  more  ...  I  breathed  no  more 
...  I  thought:  'This  must  be  death!'  Then  a  voice  spoke 
to  me.  ...  I  was  too  far  away  to  answer.  It  called  me 
loudly — and  I  came  to  life  again.  ...  I  rose  up.  ...  I 
saw  the  face  of  the  man  who  had  called  me.  .  .  .  And  then 
I  knew  why  I  must  not  die  just  yet ! " 

She  laughed,  and  so  strangely  that  Madame  Potier  cried 
out  in  terror.  She  would  have  rushed  at  the  girl  and 
clutched  her  but  for  Breagh's  strong  interposing  hand. 
He  said  in  her  ear  in  the  bad  French  she  took  for  Belgian : 

"Madame  has  traveled  many  miles,  fasting,  and  she  has 
suffered  a  great  bereavement.  .  .  .  Do  not  question  her, 
but  go  and  make  ready  her  apartment,  and  prepare  food 
for  her.  Hot  soup — she  needs  that  before  all!" 

The  little  woman  addressed  looked  sharply  at  the 
speaker,  then  mounted  the  two  steps  leading  to  the  terrace, 
scuttled  across  it  in  front  of  the  shuttered  windows  of  the 
drawing-room  and  billiard-room,  descended  the  steps  upon 
the  other  side,  and  vanished  in  the  direction  of  the  base- 
ment kitchen  door. 

Then  P.  C.  Breagh,  wondering  at  his  own  daring, 
stretched  out  a  hand  and  touched  Juliette's.  It  was  very 
cold.  He  lifted  it  gently  and  led  her  unresisting  down  the 
ivy-bordered  path  that  led  into  the  pleasance. 

For  she  must  not  be  left  alone  in  this  mood,  and  the 
garden  was  still,  and  scented,  and  beautiful  in  the  noonday 
sunshine.  Its  beds  of  autumn  flowers  blazed  from  their 
setting  of  smooth  and  still  verdant  turf.  The  great  wis- 
taria on  the  stable  buildings  was  magnificent  in  trails  of 
fading  purple  blossoms.  The  oaks  were  browning,  the 
chestnuts  shedding  their  yellow  fans.  The  stately  limes 
were  bleached  pale  golden,  the  tall  acacias  were  already 
stripped  quite  bare. 

It  was  not  yet  the  season  of  song  for  thrush  and  black- 
bird, but  the  robin's  sweet  shrill  twitter  came  from  the 
heart  of  a  hawthorn,  marvelously  laden  with  gorgeous 
crimson  fruit.  The  breast  of  the  bird,  not  yet  attired  in 
fullest  winter  plumage,  showed  orange  as  japonica  berries 
beside  th'e  ripe  haws'  splendid  hue. 

Said  P.  C.  Breagh,  trying  to  speak  lightly  and  naturally : 

"Look  at  him!  What  a  pretty  little  beggar!  Nobody 
ever  told  me  you  had  robins  in  France !  .  .  . "  Then  as 
the  bird  cocked  his  round  bright  eye  and  hopped  to  a 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  527 

higher  twig,  and  Juliette's  pale  face  remained  unchanged, 
and  her  fixed  stare  blankly  ignored  him,  her  sorrowful 
friend  cried  out  in  a  passion  of  entreaty: 

"Juliette!  Juliette,  take  care!  For  the  love  of  God, 
don't  yield  to  this!  Oh,  Juliette!  have  pity  upon  others, 
even  if  you  have  none  on  yourself ! ' ' 

The  cry  touched  a  chord  that  responded  in  vibration. 
The  stiff  waxen  mask  softened,  and  became  the  face  he 
knew.  She  looked  at  him,  and  her  eyes  were  no  longer 
fixed  and  glassy.  She  asked  in  wonder: 

' '  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? " 

Trees  hid  them  from  the  house  with  its  closed  slatted 
shutters.  They  were  near  a  rustic  seat  that  was  under  the 
great  tulip  tree.  Breagh  led  her  to  the  seat,  made  her  sit 
down,  and  sat  himself  beside  her.  He  made  no  effort  to 
retain  the  little  hand.  "It  is  not  mine,"  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  looked  at  it,  and  then  his  heart  jolted,  and  stood 
still.  .  .  .  Where  was  her  wedding  ring?  .  .  .  Didn't 
French  married  ladies  wear  the  plain  gold  circlet?  Of 
course  they  did!  Then  why?  .  .  .  Came  her  faint,  sad 
voice  again: 

"What  is  it  I  might  do  and  do  not  do,  for  myself  and 
others?  Tell  me,  Monsieur,  for  I  do  not  like  to  be  un- 
kind!" 

He  said,  trying  to  speak  clearly  and  unemotionally : 

"It  is  because  you  love  so  greatly  those  who  are  near 
you  that  I  ask  you  to  be  kind  to  these  and  to  yourself. 
You  have  suffered  a  great  loss,  you  brood  upon  it  to  your 
injury.  .  .  .  You  dream  of  revenge  upon  a  man,  high- 
placed  and  powerful,  whom  you  accuse  of  having  brought 
about  the  War." 

She  had  taken  off  the  black  silk  veil  that  she  had  worn 
as  head  covering.  A  dry  leaf  fluttered  down  from  the 
tulip  tree  and  crowned  her  splendid  coils  of  mist-black 
hair.  Her  thin  arched  brows  were  drawn  together  and 
frowning;  from  the  dark  caverns  that  Grief  had  hollowed 
round  them  looked  eyes  that  were  cold  and  hard  and  bril- 
liant as  blue  diamonds.  She  asked  in  almost  a  whisper : 

"And  if  I  dream  .  .  .  and  accuse  .  .  .  am  I  not  justi- 
fied? .  .  .  Because  he  saved  your  life,  do  you  take  his 
part?" 

Breagh  answered  ber  with  a  sudden  spurt  of  anger : 

"I  take  no  part.     I  speak  for  your  own  good.     If  a 


528  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

woman  as  frail  and  sensitive  as  you  are  yields  to  the 
promptings  of  a  hate  so  overwhelming,  a  time  comes  when 
she  cannot,  if  she  would,  control  them  or  rule  herself.  .  .  . 
When  voices  sound  in  her  ears,  urging  her  to  deeds  of 
violence,  and  she  cannot  silence  them  by  any  prayers.  .  .  . 
Then  she  goes  away  into  a  strange  dim  country  peopled 
with  shadows — lovely  or  queer,  strange  or  awful.  And 
that  is  the  country  of  Madness,  where  live  the  insane.  .  .  . 
Even  those  who  love  her  as  I — as  your  friends  and  your 
husband  love  you ! — can  never  reach  her  there ! ' ' 

The  pleading  seemed  to  touch  her.  Two  great  tears  over- 
brimmed her  pure  pale  underlids  and  fell  upon  her  shabby 
black  gown.  She  said,  trembling  a  little : 

''You  are  very  good  to  have  so  much  solicitude  for  me. 
I  thank  you  very  humbly.  It  is  true  that  I  have  sustained 
a  terrible  wound,  and  that  it  rankles — is  that  the  right 
word?  My  nature  is  not  gentle — not  amiable! — I  long  to 
strike  back  when  I  am  wounded.  .  .  .  When  those  I  love 
are  hurt  ..."  She  stopped  and  controlled  herself  with  a 
visible  effort,  then  resumed:  "I  have  it  in  me  to  be  piti- 
less! See  you  well,  there  is  something  of  my  mother  in 
me!" 

"Of  your  mother?  .  .  ." 

He  echoed  the  words  in  dismay  that  was  almost  lu- 
dicrous. .  .  .  He  had  never  asked  whether  Juliette  pos- 
sessed a  mother  or  not.  Now  he  looked  to  the  house,  ex- 
pecting one  of  the  shuttered  French  windows  to  open,  an- 
ticipating the  appearance  of  a  middle-aged  lady  arrayed  in 
mourning  crape  and  weepers,  and  Juliette  followed  and 
understood  his  look.  She  said,  with  sorrowful  meaning : 

' '  Where  friends  of  my  father  live,  Monsieur,  you  do  not 
find  my  mother.  She  is  very  beautiful,  but  not  good,  not 
noble,  as  he!  ...  She  left  him  many  years  ago,  when  I 
was  an  infant.  See!  I  could  not  have  been  higher  than 
that!"  She  measured  with  her  hand  above  the  turf  the 
height  of  the  baby  of  five  years,  with  hair  that  had  been 
silky  and  yellow  as  newly  hatched  chickens'  down.  She 
said,  her  clear,  transparent  face  darkening  with  the  shadow 
that  swept  across  her  memory:  "Before  I  encountered 
you  at  Gravelotte  I  had  passed  through  a  terrible  experi- 
ence. This  lady — of  whom  I  dread  to  speak ! — was  thrown 
across  my  path.  She  did  not  reveal  to  me  that  she  was  my 
mother,  when  I  quitted  Brussels  in  her  company.  .  .  .  She 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  529 

represented  herself  as  the  wife  of  an  officer  who  had  been 
wounded.  She  told  me  that  my  father  was  a  prisoner  in 
the  hands  of  the  Prussians.  She  took  me  to  Rethel,  that  I 
might  lay  my  case  before  the  Prince  Imperial,  and  beg  him 
to  obtain  my  father 's  release. ' ' 

P.  C.  Breagh  looked  at  her  doubtfully,  fearing — what  he 
most  feared  for  her.  She  said,  drawing  a  folded  envelope 
from  the  bosom  of  her  black  school  dress : 

"Never  shall  I  forget  how  graciously  Monseigneur  re- 
ceived me.  Here  is  a  little  keepsake  he  gave  me  with  his 
own  hand.  .  .  .  You  shall  hold  it  in  yours,  because  you 
are  my  friend,  and  Monseigneur  would  permit  it.  ...  No 
one  else,  because  no  one  deserves  it  save  you ! ' ' 

And  she  exhibited  with  dainty  pride  the  splinter  of 
rusty  scrap  iron.  The  envelope  bore  a  small  Imperial  crown 
in  gold,  with  the  initial  "E"  beneath.  ...  It  was  directed 
in  violet  ink  and  in  a  handwriting  pointed  and  elegantly 
feminine,  to  S.  A.  the  Prince  Imperial,  with  the  Great 
Headquarters  of  the  Imperial  Army,  at  the  Prefecture  of 
Metz. 

"He  is  so  brave!  .  .  .  He  wanted  to  join  M.  de  Bazaine 
and  fight  the  Prussians.  He  stamped  ...  he  wept  .  .  . 
he  suffered  such  chagrin  when  the  telegram  came  from 
the  Emperor.  .  .  .  No !  I  must  not  tell  you  of  the  telegram. 
.  .  .  My  Prince  said :  'Mademoiselle  shall  hear  it  because 
she  is  discreet!'  .  .  ." 

She  folded  away  her  treasure  in  the  envelope  that  bore 
the  Empress's  handwriting,  and  hid  it  away  again  in  its 
sweet  nest  close  to  her  innocent  heart.  Life  and  vivacity 
were  hers  again  as  she  descanted  upon  the  graces  and  gifts 
of  her  Imperial  princeling,  and  P.  C.  Breagh  listened, 
grateful  for  the  change  in  her.  The  shadow  came  back 
for  a  moment  as  she  told  him : 

"And  when  I  descended  to  the  vestibule,  Madame  had 
gone  away.  .  .  .  She  had  been  seized  with  faintness  in  the 
moment  of  our  arrival,  when  she  had  encountered  a 
stranger  passing  through  the  hall.  .  .  .  Then  I  went  back 
to  the  hotel,  and  crept  up  to  my  room  quietly.  Madame — 
whom  I  had  discovered  to  be  my  mother! — was  engaged 
with  a  visitor.  ...  I  do  not  know  at  all  who  he  was.  But  I 
heard  him  say,  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  that  was  be- 
tween us  ...  'When  she  conies,  you  shall  present  me  to 
the  little  Queen  of  Diamonds!'  And  he  laughed.  .  .  .  Mon 


530  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Dieu!  how  strange  a  laugh !  ...  It  made  me  feel  cold.  It 
makes  me  cold  even  now  to  remember  it.  ...  But  I  do  not 
think  I  have  been  really  warm  since  the  night  upon  which 
I  found  the  portrait,  and  my  mother  said :  'The  discovery 
ivas  inevitable!  Now,  with  your  leave,  I  am  going  to 
sleep!'  • 

With  such  truth  did  she  render  the  very  tone  of  the 
sumptuous  Adelaide's  languid  irony  that  P.  C.  Breagh 
started  as  though  he  had  been  stung.  Somewhere  he  had 
met  someone  ...  a  woman  who  spoke  like  that  ?  .  .  .  Who 
was  she?  Where  had  they  encountered?  .  .  .  He  beat  his 
brains  to  evoke  some  reply,  in  vain.  And  Juliette  went  on : 

"It  does  me  good  to  tell  you  this,  Monsieur,  though  I 
thought  at  first  I  would  not.  You  will  understand  how 
terrible  it  was  to  discover  in  this  lady,  who  had  deceived 
me,  the  mother  whom  I  have  believed  dead  until  a  few 
months  ago.  There  was  something  in  her  very  beauty,  and 
ah!  she  is  so  beautiful! — that  made  me  regard  her  with 
terror.  .  .  .  See  you,  I  prayed  to  Our  Blessed  Lady  for  aid 
to  overcome  that  terror.  Then  at  the  daybreak,  I  rose  and 
went  to  her  bed.  When  I  saw  her  sleeping,  I  think  I 
feared  her  more  than  ever.  The  face  can  reveal  so  much, 
Monsieur,  in  sleep.  And  hers  was  a  sleep  uneasy,  and 
troubled  by  visions.  .  .  .  Without  waking  she  said  a  thing 
so  strange.  .  .  .  'Only  a  woman  of  fashion  would  be  guilty 
of  such  infamy!'  .  .  .  What  made  you  start  so  violently, 
Monsieur  ? ' ' 

For  P.  C.  Breagh  had  jumped  as  though  he  had  been  hit 
by  a  bullet.  His  mouth  screwed  itself  into  the  shape  of  a 
whistle,  his  eyes  rounded  unbecomingly.  He  remembered 
when  and  where  he  had  heard  that  utterance — in  the  res- 
onant accents  of  the  Man  of  Iron,  and  addressed  to  the 
adventurous  beauty  encountered  at  the  Foreign  Office  in 
the  Wilhelm  Strasse,  Berlin. 

What  were  the  words  that  had  preceded  the  sentence, 
scathing  in  their  irony,  terrible  in  their  implied  contempt? 

"It  would  have  required  fewer  scruples  and  more  tough- 
ness than  Agamemnon  possessed  to  have  offered  up  an  only 
daughter  to  Venus  Libertina.  .  .  .  Only  a  woman  of  fashion 
would  be  capable  of  such  infamy.  .  .  .  Pardon!  but  you- 
have  dropped  your  parasol!" 

And  an  English  boy  had  picked  it  up,  and  seen  the 
devastating  change  wrought  in  that  softly  tinted  mask  of 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  531 

sensuous  beauty,  by  Conscience,  roused  to  anguish  by  the 
vitriol  splash  of  scorn. 

So  the  Duessa  of  the  Wilhelm  Strasse  was  Madame  de 
Bayard!  How  strange  the  chance  encounter  that  had 
brought  them  together  in  that  house !  What  was  the  bar- 
gain she  had  hoped  to  drive  with  Bismarck?  What  had 
she  intended  when  she  had  taken  her  daughter  to  Rethel? 
Who  was  the  man  who  had  been  waiting  to  be  presented  to 
the  little  Queen  of  Diamonds?  .  .  .  And  how  true  had 
been  the  instinct  that  had  warned  the  girl  of  danger,  whose 
nature  her  Convent-bred  innocence  made  it  impossible  for 
her  to  conceive  ? 

She  was  speaking: 

"Do  not  think  me  wicked  or  insensible,  Monsieur.  I  am 
deeply  sensible  of  all  your  goodness !  .  .  .  I  know  very  well 
that  there  is  truth  in  what  you  say!  .  .  .  You  are  noble, 
candid,  magnanimous.  .  .  .  You  do  not  comprehend  what 
it  is  to  hate  so  that  it  is  torture  .  .  .  like  fire  burning  here, 
here,  and  here!  ..." 

She  touched  her  slight  bosom  and  her  throat  with  the 
joined  finger-tips  of  her  small  hands,  shielded  her  eyes  and 
forehead  with  them  an  instant,  then  swept  them  wide  apart. 
A  curious  gesture,  and  notable,  in  its  suggestion  of  surging 
overwhelming  emotion,  and  the  dominance  of  an  impulse 
obsessing  in  its  evil  strength. 

' '  Here  where  it  is  so  quiet  I  shall  recover  in  a  little.  .  .  . 
I  shall  become  calmer.  ...  I  shall  learn  to  sleep  again. 
.  .  .  You  cannot  imagine  how  much  I  wish  to  sleep,  Mon- 
sieur !  .  .  .  But  when  I  lie  down  it  is  as  though  great  doors 
in  my  brain  were  thrown  wide  open.  There  is  music  .  .  . 
and  processions  of  people  come  pouring,  pouring  through. 
.  .  .  There  are  voices  that  make  great  clamor — there  are 
hands  that  wave  to  me  and  beckon.  But  I  clench  my  own 
hands  and  lie  still — so  very  still !  I  pray  to  Our  Lord  that 
one  figure  may  not  pass  among  the  others,  for  then  I  know 
I  shall  have  to  get  up  and  follow  him.  ...  I  cry  to  Our 
Lady  to  cover  my  eyes  with  Her  cool  hands,  that  I  may  not 
see  if  he  does  come.  But  always  he  passes;  walking  or 
driven  in  a  chariot — riding  a  great  horse,  or  borne  upon 
the  shoulders  of  guards.  And  then  I  resist  no  more,  for 
it  is  useless !  I  wake ! — and  I  am  standing  in  the  middle  of 
my  room ! ' ' 

Said  P.  C.  Breagh,  comprehending  the  situation:    "In  a 


532  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

word,  you  are  suffering  from  overstrain  and  consequent 
insomnia.  And  I  wish  I  were  a  full-blown  M.D.,  because  I 
think  I  should  know  what  to  do.  But  you  will  let  me  pre- 
scribe the  doctor,  if  I  may  not  undertake  the  case,  won't 
you  ?  What 's  that  ?  Who 's  there  ? ' ' 

Something  like  a  gurgling  laugh  had  sounded  behind 
them,  and  Juliette  glanced  round,  and  back  at  Carolan 
with  something  of  the  old  gayety  in  her  eyes. 

"It  is  the  Satyr  of  the  pool,  where  Madame  Tessier 
grows  her  water  plants.  He  laughs  like  that  when  the 
water  bubbles  in  his  throat. ' ' 

She  rose  and  followed  a  little  path  leading  through  a 
shrubbery  of  lilac  and  syringa.  Beyond  rose  the  ivy-hung 
and  creeper-covered  eastern  boundary  wall  of  the  pleas- 
ance.  From  the  grinning  mouth  of  the  Satyr  mask 
wrought  in  gray  stone  the  slender  spring  spouted  no  longer. 
It  trickled  from  a  hole  in  the  pipe  behind  the  mask,  and 
yet  the  laugh  sounded  at  intervals  as  of  old.  The  wall 
below  the  mask  was  wet,  and  green  with  a  slimy  moss- 
growth,  fed  by  the  dampness;  the  ferns  that  bordered  the 
pool,  the  water  plants  that  grew  in  it,  had  suffered  from 
the  diminution  of  their  supply.  The  brook  had  diminished 
to  a  slender  trickle  winding  among  stones  crowned  with 
dry  and  withering  mosses.  Juliette  cried  out  at  the  spec- 
tacle in  sheer  dismay. 

What  would  Madame  say  if  she  knew  how  spoiled  was 
this,  her  cherished  bit  of  sylvan  beauty?  Never  mind. 
When  she  returned  all  should  be  found  in  order  of  the  best. 
The  kitchen  garden,  perforce  neglected  since  the  departure 
of  M.  Potier,  should  be  weeded  diligently.  The  dead  roses 
should  be  snipped  off  with  loving  care,  the  withered  blos- 
soms pulled  from  the  sheaths  of  the  flaming  gladioli.  .  .  . 
The  place  needed  a  mistress,  that  was  plain  to  Mademoiselle 
de  Bayard 's  order-loving  eye. 

' '  We  will  work  here !  .  .  . "  she  said,  and  almost  clapped 
her  hands  at  the  thought  of  the  pleasant  labor  waiting 
them.  "Me,  I  adore  gardening!  And  you  also — do  you 
not,  Monsieur?  ..." 

Could  P.  C.  Breagh  deny?  He  cried  with  a  hot  flush  of 
joy  at  the  thought  of  long  days  of  sweet  companionship: 
' '  Indeed  I  do !  ...  and  of  course  I  will,  Madame ! ' ' 

"  'Madame!  .      .'  " 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  533 

She  had  nearly  betrayed  the  truth,  but  she  nipped  her 
stern  upper  lip  close  down  upon  its  rosy  fellow.  .  .  .  Was 
she  not  married?  Nearly,  if  not  quite.  .  .  . 

So  nearly  that  until  M.  Charles  appeared  with  Madame, 
she  would  maintain  the  character  of  a  recent  bride.  It 
would  be  better  not  to  rekindle  in  the  gray  eyes  of  Monica's 
brother  that  fire  that  had  blazed  there  so  fiercely  a  few 
hours  before. 


LXII 

How  strangest  of  the  strange,  to  love  a  person  so  nearly  a 
stranger!  .  .  .  What  had  Monica's  brother  been  thinking 
of?  In  January  they  had  met,  and  parted  coldly  ...  in 
August  they  had  met  again,  and  had  spent  together  not 
quite  three  days.  .  .  .  But  what  days !  to  brand  themselves 
upon  the  memory.  After  that  morning  on  the  bloody  field 
of  Gravelotte — that  night  spent  in  the  woodshed  behind  the 
cottage  of  Madame  Guyot — that  gray  dawn  when  they  had 
walked,  hand  clasped  in  hand,  behind  the  bearer  of  the 
Blessed  Sacrament,  could  He  and  She  be  ever  anything  but 
friends?  .  .  .  Close  friends  .  .  .  dear  comrades,  linked  by 
indissoluble  bonds  of  memories  ...  of  perils  shared,  of 
experiences  unforgettable  by  both.  .  .  .  What  would  Life 
be  like  when  one  had  to  face  it  shorn  of  the  sympathy  and 
companionship  of  Monica's  brother?  .  .  .  Juliette  did  not 
dare  to  question.  The  thought  of  such  loneliness  was 
enough  to  freeze  the  heart. 

Meanwhile,  here  was  Madame  Potier,  heated  and  trium- 
phant, proclaiming  Madame  served  with  the  best  that 
could  be  got.  A  lentil  soup — an  omelette  with  ham,  coffee, 
and  fruit  from  the  garden.  One  would  do  better  later,  let 
Madame  only  wait.  .  .  .  The  apartment  of  Madame  Tessier 
had  been  got  ready  for  Madame  .  .  .  the  small  room  usual- 
ly occupied  by  M.  Charles  might  be  prepared  for  the  Bel- 
gian gentleman.  .  .  .  Or — since  that  room  was  dismantled 
for  cleaning  purposes,  and  Madame  Potier  herself  occupied 
the  apartment  adjoining  .  .  .  would  Monsieur  mind  sleep- 
ing at  the  garden  cottage?  She  would  guarantee  there 
cleanliness  and  more  than  comfort.  .  .  .  Was  not  the  bed- 
room hers  and  her  poor  Potier 's?  .  .  .  Had  they  not  slept 
in  that  bed  for  ten  years  past  ?  .  .  .  Ah,  wherever  her  poor 


534  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Potier  might  now  be  sleeping,  he  would  never  find  the 
equal  of  his  own  bed.  .  .  . 

The  proposal,  possibly  prompted  by  discretion  on  the 
part  of  the  excellent  Madame  Potier,  was  gratefully  ac- 
cepted by  Breagh.  And  from  that  hour,  under  the  shel- 
tering wing  of  the  hectic  little  caretaker,  began  a  little 
idyll  of  happiness  for  two  young  people,  who  asked  noth- 
ing better  than  that  it  should  last. 

It  was  exquisite  autumn  weather.  They  rose  early,  and 
passed  out  of  the  iron  gate  together,  and  so  through  the 
quiet  streets  to  Mass  at  the  great  church  of  Notre  Dame 
in  the  Rue  St.  Genevieve.  Or  they  would  attend  it  at  the 
Chapel  in  the  Convent  of  Carmelites  that  is  now  the  Petit 
College  in  conjunction  with  a  colossal  Lycee.  Then  they 
would  come  back  to  dejeuner,  laid  on  a  table  under  the 
trees  on  the  lawn,  and  afterward  they  would  work  in  the 
garden,  or  read,  or  talk.  But  they  read  no  newspapers, 
and  for  the  best  part  of  two  months  they  never  exchanged 
a  word  about  the  War. 

It  was  the  treatment  devised  by  P.  C.  Breagh,  who  had 
failed  of  his  practicing  degree  in  Medicine,  and  under  this 
regime  the  shadow  that  had  rested  upon  Juliette  lifted  day 
by  day.  He  had  taken  Madame  Potier  into  his  confidence, 
and  she  entered  into  a  conspiracy  for  the  better  nourishing 
of  one  whom  she  firmly  believed  to  be  the  wife  of  her  mas- 
ter. She  dragooned  Juliette  into  drinking  a  vast  quantity 
of  milk,  and  the  girl's  haggard  outlines  began  to  fill  out, 
and  her  dreadful  dreams  ceased  to  haunt  her.  Sleep  re- 
turned, strength  revived,  her  grief  for  the  lost  father,  un- 
assuaged,  became  less  poignant.  She  could  look  back  upon 
the  happiness  of  their  old  life  together  without  the  anguish 
that  rends  the  heart. 

Daily  she  doled  out  to  Madame  Potier  the  small  sum 
necessary  for  housekeeping.  Under  the  able  management 
of  the  hectic  little  woman,  a  very  little  money  went  a  long 
way.  Such  butter,  such  cheese  of  Brie,  such  excellent 
bread,  milk  and  cream,  such  country  chickens,  such  fruit, 
and  vegetables  from  the  garden,  were  daily  set  upon  the 
table,  that  a  honeymooning  Prince  and  Princess  could  not 
have  been  better  served.  The  reward  of  Madame  Potier 
was  to  see  her  handiwork  vanish  under  the  combined  on- 
slaughts of  Madame  Charles  and  Monsieur.  .  .  .  She 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  535 

waited  upon  them  at  table,  and  joined  in  their  conversa- 
tion, after  the  inconvenient  habit  of  her  simple  kind. 

As,  still  after  the  habit  of  her  kind,  she  conceived  an 
affection  for  her  young  mistress,  she  developed  cunning  of 
a  wholly  lovable  sort.  The  first  time  she  heard  her  idol 
laugh,  she  clapped  her  hands  with  rapture.  Another  day, 
in  pursuance  of  a  stratagem  she  had  elaborated,  she  placed 
upon  the  dinner  table  a  dish,  with  the  blatant  boast : 

"My  poor  Potier  used  to  declare  by  all  that  is  sacred 
that  no  living  woman  could  cook  ragout  of  veal  except  his 
wife!" 

She  whipped  off  the  cover.  Madame  Charles  helped 
Monsieur  in  silence,  and  unwittingly  P.  C.  Breagh  played 
into  Madame  Potier 's  hands.  For  he  sniffed  approval,  and 
said,  as  she  set  his  sizzling  hot  plate  before  him : 

"M.  Potier  was  quite  right!  If  the  woman  lives  who 
can  cook  a  better  ragout,  I  've  never  met  her,  Madame ! ' ' 

Juliette's  eyes  sent  forth  blue  sparks  as  she  sat  erect  at 
the  head  of  the  table.  Her  sloping  shoulders  sloped  ter- 
ribly, her  upper  lip  was  preternaturally  long.  She  helped 
herself  to  a  very  little  of  the  dish  before  her,  and  began  to 
eat  without  perceptible  enthusiasm.  Madame  Potier  stood 
back  and  watched  her,  her  red  hands  on  the  hips  that  were 
embraced  by  her  apron  of  blue  stuff.  She  said : 

' '  Madame  Charles  will  perhaps  have  forgotten  the  menus 
she  used  to  prepare  for  Madame  Tessier  and  M.  le 
Colonel."  She  crossed  herself  at  the  mention  of  the  dead 
man's  name. 

Juliette's  blue  eyes  filled,  and  the  stiffness  went  out  of 
her.  She  laid  down  her  knife  and  fork.  P.  C.  Breagh 
scowled  savage  rep'roof  at  Madame  Potier.  But  Madame, 
at  first  overwhelmed,  recovered  herself.  She  went  on,  as 
though  she  had  never  broken  off : 

"Menus  composed  of  excellent — but  excellent  dishes! 
.  .  .  "What  a  pity  to  think  that  Madame  Charles  cannot 
make  them  now ! — Look  you,  to  cook  well  is  an  art  that  may 
be  easily  forgotten!  .  .  .  Hey,  Madame  is  not  eating  to- 
day!" 

Madame  said  in  accents  that  were  dignified  and  frigid : 

"There  is  a  little  too  much  sugar  in  the  ragout,  dear 
Madame  Potier;  otherwise  it  is,  as  Monsieur  says — excel- 
lent!" 


536  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"  'Sugar.'  .  .  .  But  one  doesn't  put  sugar "  P.  C. 

Breagh  was  beginning,  when  both  the  women  turned  on 
him  and  rent  him,  figuratively. 

' '  Who  does  not  put  sugar  ?    Will  Monsieur  answer  me  ? " 

The  piercing  shriek  was  Madame  Potier's.  And  the 
silvery  accents  of  Madame  Charles  took  up  the  burden, 
saying : 

"Dear  Monsieur  Breagh,  the  delicate  brown  of  coloring 
that  pleases  you — the  suavity  that  corrects  the  sharpness 
of  the  salt — these  are  due  to  sugar — burnt  and  added  at 
the  last  moment.  But  one  should  use  it  with  delicacy,  or 
the  effect  is  absolutely  lost ! ' ' 

"Can  you  really  cook?"  he  asked,  in  his  senseless,  mas- 
culine fashion,  smiling  rather  foolishly  and  staring  at  her 
with  his  honest  gray  eyes. 

And  Juliette  answered  with  a  trill  of  delicate,  airy 
laughter : 

"Do  you  find  it  so  incredible?  Well,  I  will  not  boast 
now,  but  presently — you  shall  see ! " 

Next  morning,  when  Madame  Potier  returned  from  mar- 
ket, with  an  unusually  heavy  basket,  Madame  Charles 
donned  a  stuff  apron  of  the  good  woman's,  and  vanished 
with  her  into  the  kitchen,  whence  their  voices  could  be 
heard  chattering  as  though  a  particularly  shrill-voiced 
pea-hen  were  singing  a  duet  with  a  reed  warbler  or  crested 
wren.  The  twelve  o  'clock  dejeuner  was  memorable,  the  five 
o'clock  dinner  a  marvel,  from  the  croute  au  pot  to  the  sole 
au  gratin,  and  from  the  sole  to  the  filet  aux  champignons! 
There  were  beignets  afterward — crisp,  adorable,  light  as 
bubbles.  P.  C.  Breagh  ate  hugely,  and  praised,  while  the 
excellent  Potier  chuckled.  Her  work,  she  told  herself,  sat 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  in  this  slender  creature  with  the 
wild-rose  cheeks  and  the  beaming,  sparkling  eyes. 

Juliette  had  found  in  a  trunk  full  of  garments  that  had 
been  committed  by  her  to  Madame  Tessier's  keeping  a 
simple  dinner  dress  of  thin  filmy  black.  Jet  gleamed  in 
the  trimming  of  the  skirt  and  polonaise,  and  upon  the 
elbow  sleeves  and  about  the  V-shaped  neck  of  the  bodice, 
the  somber  gleam  of  it  threw  into  marvelous  relief  the 
ivory  whiteness  of  the  young,  fresh  skin.  Her  dainty  slim- 
ness  was  emphasized  by  the  absence  of  all  ornament.  Her 
marvelous  black  hair,  fine  as  cobweb,  silky  without  glossi- 
ness, crowned  her  chiseled  temples  with  its  dusky  coils. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  537 

When  she  lifted  a  slender  arm  to  thrust  in  a  hairpin  more 
firmly,  the  sunset  reflection  from  the  sky  caught  the  fragile 
hand  and  reddened  the  delicate  palm  of  it,  and  the  tiny 
nails  that  shone  like  rosy,  polished  shells. 

She  did  not  look  as  though  she  had  been  toiling  in  a 
kitchen  among  casseroles  and  stew  pots.  Rather  an  elfin 
Queen  of  Faerie — a  Titania  robed  in  cobweb  and  moon- 
beams, whose  smile  sent  a  breeze  of  happiness  flowing 
through  the  sad,  empty  places  in  one's  heart.  For  the 
heart  of  the  young  man  who  loved  her  grew  the  emptier 
the  more  her  sweetness  filled  it,  and  realized  its  own  sorrow 
the  more  she  showed  herself  to  be  naturally  a  daughter  of 
joy. 

She  belonged  to  Charles  Tessier,  and  all  these  sparkling 
looks  and  lovely  flushes,  these  sweet,  unconscious  provoca- 
tions of  gesture  and  tone  and  inflection  were  for  him — and 
no  other  man.  .  .  .  This  remembrance  was  always  alive  in 
Breagh  to  rear  a  barrier  between  him  and  his  Infanta.  .  .  . 
And  other  knowledge,  too,  was  his,  held  in  common  with 
Madame  Potier  and  many  thousands  of  other  people,  that 
he  had  not  dared  to  share  with  Juliette. 

But  to-night  he  had  realized  that  the  truth  could  no 
longer  be  kept  from  her.  She  was  cured.  There  could 
hardly  be  a  relapse  into  the  old  conditions,  even  when  she 
learned  the  dreadful  truth.  And  even  if  risk  there  were, 
she  must  be  told  that  truth  by  him  to-night,  or  hear  it  from 
the  lips  of  some  stranger.  It  was  a  miracle  that  she  had 
remained  so  long  in  ignorance  of  the  fate  of  France — her 
beloved  France. 

' '  For  seven  weeks  we  have  played  together  like  two  chil- 
dren on  the  brink  of  an  open  grave!"  he  said  to  himself. 
' '  Have  I  been  right  or  wrong  ?  Only  Time  can  tell ! ' ' 

Madame  Potier  had  clattered  out  of  the  room,  and  across 
the  hall,  and  down  the  kitchen  stairs  to  make  the  coffee. 
Behind  those  little  black  beady  eyes  of  hers  she  hoarded 
the  knowledge  of  well-nigh  unspeakable  things.  She  had 
been  faithful  in  guarding  them  from  the  knowledge  of 
Juliette.  But  now  she  had  said  to  P.  C.  Breagh:  "You 
must  speak  to-night,  Monsieur!  We  have  done  our  best, 
but  we  two  cannot  keep  from  the  poor  little  lady  that  to- 
day the  King  of  Prussia  will  enter  Versailles ! ' ' 

She  had  given  him  a  look  as  she  had  left  the  dining  room 
that  had  said :  ' '  Remember ! "  P.  C.  Breagh,  nerving  him- 


538  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

self  to  the  ugly  task,  felt  like  one  who  seethes  the  kid  in  its 
mother's  milk. 

As  he  pondered,  something  cool  and  fragrant  struck  him 
on  the  forehead.  He  picked  up  the  red  carnation  that  had 
fallen  upon  the  dessert  plate  before  him.  He  inhaled  its 
fragrance  lingeringly,  holding  it  so  as  to  hide  his  mouth. 
Over  it  his  troubled  gray  eyes  scanned  the  face  that  was  all 
alight  with  sparkling  gayety.  Why  had  Juliette  thrown  the 
flower  ?  Why  had  she  challenged  him  ?  She,  who  had  up  to 
this  moment  been  decorous  and  reserved  almost  to  stiff- 
ness. Was  it  true  that  in  every  woman  lives  a  coquette  ? 

She  was  asking  herself  the  same  question,  pierced  by  the 
conviction  that  her  grandmother  would  have  been  horrified. 
But  it  had  been  impossible  not  to  hurl  the  perfumed  missile 
at  the  brooding  face  with  its  smear  of  dark-red  meeting 
eyebrows,  and  the  short,  square  nose  and  the  pleasant  lips. 

He  had  on  the  shabby  suit  of  brown,  for  his  funds  did 
not  permit  of  a  visit  to  the  tailor.  His  new  linen  was 
spotless,  and  under  the  narrow  turned-down  collar  he  wore 
a  loose-ended  black  silk  tie.  The  bow  was  pulled  out  upon 
one  side  so  much  longer  than  upon  the  other  that  Made- 
moiselle's feminine  fingers  itched  to  adjust  it.  How  care- 
less he  was  in  matters  of  dress,  this  adorable  young  Eng- 
lishman ! 

She  was  restless  this  evening.  He  had  aroused  her  curi- 
osity. Some  hours  after  she  had  retired  upon  the  previous 
night  she  had  risen,  and  stolen  barefooted  to  the  open  win- 
dow that  looked  upon  the  moonlit  garden,  and  parted  the 
thin  curtains  that  hung  before  it,  and  peeped  out.  .  .  . 

There  was  not  a  breath  of  air  to  bring  the  autumn  leaves 
down.  A  white  dew  sparkled  on  the  turf  that  Breagh  kept 
closely  cut.  The  countless  clocks  of  the  white  town  of 
royal  palaces  tinkled  and  chimed  and  belled  and  boomed 
out  the  witching  hour  of  two. 

Her  room  was  on  the  east  front,  facing  the  garden.  .  .  . 
A  downward  glance  showed  her  that  Breagh  was  pacing 
there. 

Up  and  down,  backward  and  forward,  leaving  black 
prints  of  footsteps  upon  the  lawn  that  was  all  be-gemmed 
with  dewdrops.  The  presence  of  so  many  reservoirs  makes 
Versailles  more  than  a  trifle  damp. 

How  rash!  .  .  .  How  unwise!  Did  the  young  man  de- 
sire a  fever?  Juliette,  accustomed  of  old  to  subject  her 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  539 

Colonel,  for  his  health's  sake,  to  a  daughterly  surveillance, 
had  a  lecture  ready  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue.  She  might 
have  spoken,  had  not  the  patroling  figure  come  to  a  stand- 
still, and  looked  up  wistfully  at  her  shrouded  window,  and 
said  something  in  a  low,  dogged,  dejected  tone,  and  shaken 
his  head  and  gone  away. 

"  I  've  got  to  tell ! — and  I  don 't  want  to  tell ! — and  I  don 't 
know  how  to  tell,  that 's  the  bother  of  it !  ...  Give  it  up ! 
.  .  .  For  another  night ! ' ' 

Without  the  muttered  words,  the  glance  and  the  head- 
shake  would  have  conveyed  his  doubt  and  his  perplexity,  to 
the  subject  of  his  sore  reflections,  returning  in  a  flutter  of 
strange,  sweet  wonder,  and  expectation,  to  her  recently 
vacated  couch. 

You  may  imagine  how  she  tossed  and  turned,  seeing  his 
miserable  gray  eyes  looking  at  her  out  of  the  shadows  in 
the  corners.  Those  eyes  could  blaze  in  tigerish  fashion 
when  he  was  angry,  for  she  had  seen.  .  .  .  When  she  had 
crept  from  under  my  Cousin  Boisset's  death  bed,  they  had 
flamed  with  a  wonderful  light  of  joy  and  triumph,  and 
when  he  had  caught  her  fiercely  to  his  breast.  .  .  . 

Oh!  to  be  snatched  again  into  those  strong  young  arms, 
and  held  against  the  heart  that  shook  one  with  its  beating. 
.  .  .  Was  it  wicked  to  feel  that  one  hated  Charles  Tessier? 
Was  it  unnatural,  in  these  days  of  mourning,  to  think  of 
anyone  except  her  lost  Colonel?  .  .  .  Was  it  not  exceed- 
ingly unmaidenly  to  determine  that  Monica's  brother 
should  say  whatever  it  was  he  had  got  to  say,  and  did  not 
want  to  say,  and  did  not  know  how  to  say,  no  later  than  the 
following  night  ?  .  .  . 

True — she  had  purposefully  conveyed  to  him  the  impres- 
sion that  she  was  married,  but  she  would  explain  that  she 
had  meant  that  she  would  be  by  and  by.  .  .  .  Alas!  what 
would  her  grandmother,  that  sainted  woman,  have  said  re- 
garding this  lapse  from  the  way  of  truth? 


LXIII 

BUT  she  certainly  had  not  planned  to  throw  the  carnation. 
The  missile  hurled,  she  had  been  seized  with  paralyzing 
fright.  The  shade  of  her  grandmother  seemed  to  rise,  ap- 


540  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

palling  in  its  shocked  propriety.  One  could  almost  hear 
her  saying:  "My  unhappy  child,  you  have  become  more 
like  your  mother  than  I  could  have  believed,  had  I  not 
seen!  .  .  ." 

Now  in  sheer  desperation  she  mocked  on,  dissembling 
her  terror. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Why  are  you  so  dull  and  dis- 
trait? Are  you  tired  of  living  shut  up  in  a  garden?  An- 
swer me,  I  pray  you,  Monsieur ! ' ' 

He  looked  at  her,  and  his  cleft  chin  squared  itself,  and 
his  broad  red  eyebrows  lowered  into  a  line  of  determina- 
tion. He  said  doggedly: 

' '  The  happiest  time  of  my  life  has  been  spent  shut  up  in 
this  garden!  I  believe  you  know  that  very  well!" 

She  burst  into  silver  laughter  and  cried  to  him  teasingly : 

"But  you  did  not  look  at  all  happy  when  I  peeped  at 
you  in  the  night  from  my  window.  See!  Thus,  with  the 
hands  miles  deep  in  the  pockets,  and  the  shoulders  elevated 
to  the  tips  of  the  ears!" 

She  jumped  up  and  mimicked  the  slouching  gait  of  the 
midnight  cogitator,  brilliantly  and  with  fidelity,  parading 
between  the  dinner  table  and  the  long  windows  that  opened 
toward  the  lawn.  He  recognized  himself,  and  reddened, 
while  he  laughed  with  vexation.  He  had  never  before  seen 
her  in  this  mood  of  Puck-like  mischief.  He  had  yet  to  be- 
come acquainted  with  another  phase  of  Juliette. 

"Did  you  learn  to  act  so  well  at  your  Convent?"  he 
asked  her,  and  she  answered  with  sudden  gravity: 

"Acting  can  never  be  learned,  Monsieur.  ...  It  is  a 
gift,  of  the  good  angels  or  the  bad  ones,  which  can  be 
brought  to  perfection  by  use.  To  'make'  an  artist  of  the 
stage  is  not  possible.  He  or  she  is  born  .  .  .  and  that  is  all 
I  know.  ..."  She  added:  "When  I  make  my  appear- 
ance at  the  Theatre  Francais,  they  shall  send  you  a  billet 
de  faveur.  Then  you  shall  see  acting.  I  promise  you !" 

She  was  more  like  Queen  Titania  than  ever  as  she  held 
up  her  fairy  finger,  and  smiled  and  sparkled  at  the  bewil- 
dered young  man. 

"For  example,  if  MM.  les  Directeurs  assign  to  me  the 
part  of  a  grandmother  of  sixty,  do  you  think  I  shall  put 
on  wrinkles  with  paint?  .  .  .  Non,  merci!  The  true  artist 
says  to  herself,  'I  am  old!'  and  she  is  old.  ...  '7  am  ugly!* 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  541 

and  she  becomes  hideous.  '/  am  wicked!'  See  here!  .  .  . 
Is  this  a  face  to  regard  with  love,  Monsieur?" 

The  last  sentence  had  been  croaked,  rather  than  spoken. 
No  Japanese  mask  of  a  witch  could  well  have  been  more 
furrowed,  puckered,  scowling,  or  malignant  than  the  face 
that  had  been  Titania's  a  moment  back.  Breagh  called 
out  in  protest,  half  angry,  half  amused,  wholly  fascinated ; 
and  Oberon's  bright  Queen  came  back  again  to  say: 

"Or  I  can  be  stupid,  very  stupid — if  that  will  please 
you!  .  .  .  Gentlemen  sometimes  admire  stupid  girls.  .  .  . 
"We  had  one  at  the  Convent — your  countrywoman  and  a 
great  heiress.  Miss  Smizz — the  daughter  of  Smizz  and  Co., 
Tea  Merchants,  of  Mincing  Lane." 

She  banished  all  expression  save  a  smile  of  absolute 
fatuity,  puffed  out  her  cheeks,  narrowed  her  eyelids,  per- 
mitting her  eyes  to  twinkle  through  the  merest  slits.  She 
giggled  inanely,  and  said,  combining  the  consonantal  thick- 
ness of  catarrh  with  the  gobbling  of  a  hen-turkey  .  .  . 

' '  All  the  eggstras.  .  .  .  Whad  does  expedse  battere  whed 
you've  got  a  Forchud  to  fall  bag  od?  Besides,  Ba  says  I 
bust  barry  iddo  the  Beerage,  ad  accoblishbeds  are  dod 
usually  expegded  of  a  doblebad  's  wife ! ' ' 

She  added,  in  her  own  voice,  summarily  banishing  Miss 
Smith,  her  expectations,  and  her  splutter : 

"Do  not  be  vexed  with  me,  Monsieur  Breagh,  I  beg  of 
you!  ...  I  am  perhaps  a  little  excited.  There  is  some- 
thing strange  in  the  air.  ...  I  have  a  humming  in  my  ears 
as  though  great  crowds  of  people  were  talking  very  softly. 
.  .  .  What  is  it?"  she  asked  in  bewilderment,  pressing  the 
fine  points  of  her  small  fingers  into  her  temples.  "What  is 
the  matter  with  me  to-night  ?  .  .  . " 

Then  P.  C.  Breagh  spoke  out,  in  a  tone  that  hurled  a 
challenge  to  Destiny: 

' '  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  you !  .  .  .  That  is  the 
glory  of  it !  You  were  ill,  and  now  you  are  well.  .  .  .  You 
can  laugh  again,  and  sleep  again,  and  cook  a  dinner  and 
help  to  eat  it.  ...  You  have  made  capital  use  of  your 
time !  .  .  .  For  we  came  here  on  the  twenty-first  of  August, 
and  this  is  the  fifth  of  October.  We  have  been  shut 
up  in  a  garden,  as  you  say  yourself,  for  more  than  six 
weeks!  ..." 

"Can  it  be  possible?" 


542  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

She  looked  at  him  intently  and  realized  his  earnestness. 
He  answered  with  a  glow  of  pride  in  his  work : 

' '  Fact !  And  in  all  the  time  you  have  never  seen  a  news- 
paper or  asked  a  question  about  the  War.  Even  when  you 
have  heard  the  great  guns  firing  from  the  forts  below  Paris 
— Issy  and  Vanves  and  Montrouge  and  the  rest — you  never 
said  a  word  that  showed  you  noticed.  .  .  .  Do  you  know 
why?  .  .  ." 

His  voice  wavered  exultantly.  She  looked  at  him  and 
slightly  shook  her  head. 

"No!  .  .  ." 

"Because  I  willed  you  to.  By  George!  there  are  times 
when  I  believe  that  even  yet  I'd  make  a  doctor.  Mental 
suggestion  was  the  line  I  took  with  you.  ..."  He  rubbed 
his  hands.  "Not  that  I  could  have  done  anything  without 
the  help  of  Madame  Potier — first-class  little  woman ! — regu- 
lar brick  that  she  is !  ...  You  see,  your  brain  had  sucked 
up  all  the  trouble  it  was  capable  of  holding.  You  wanted 
rest.  .  .  .  Well,  you've  had  it,  thank  God!  Night  after 
night  I  've  walked  up  and  down,  backward  and  forward,  on 
the  lawn,  just  as  you  saw  me  doing  last  night,  saying: 
*  Sleep !  Forget !  You  have  my  orders  to ! '  ' 

The  tone  of  mastery  thrilled,  even  while  the  muscles  of 
her  mouth  twitched  with  repressed  laughter.  He  was 
beautiful  in  her  eyes  as  he  leaned  forward  smiling  at  her. 
She  said,  repressing  her  tears,  and  concealing  her  admira- 
tion: 

' '  But  last  night  you  did  not  say  '  Sleep ! '  but  something 
else,  Monsieur.  ..." 

There  was  a  swift  change  in  him,  telling  her  that  for 
once  he  was  not  listening.  His  eyes  were  alert,  his  ear 
eagerly  drank  in  a  sound  composed  of  many  sounds  that 
grew  louder  as  they  came  more  near.  Now  the  whole  room 
was  full  of  the  trampling  of  horses  and  the  fainter  clink  of 
spur  and  scabbard  and  bridle.  .  .  .  Cavalry  were  passing 
up  one  of  the  great  avenues  south  of  the  Rue  de  Provence — 
not  the  Avenue  of  St.  Cloud — probably  the  Rue  des  Chan- 
tiers — there  was  a  distant  roar  of  cheers.  .  .  .  Then  in 
one  little  oasis  of  silence  came  the  rolling  of  carriages,  and 
then  the  walls  shivered  with  the  roaring  of  lusty  lungs : 

"Hoch  der  Konig!  Hoch  der  Kronprinz!" — and  the 
shouts  were  drowned  in  a  great  burst  of  martial  music,  and 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  543 

the  trampling  of  men  and  horses,  mingled  with  the  beat  of 
drums  and  the  blare  of  trumpets,  rolled  on  tumultuously 
again. 

The  blood  ebbed  from  Juliette's  cheeks  and  lips  to  her 
heart  as  she  listened.  Then  the  double  doors  of  the  dining 
room  were  butted  open  with  the  corner  of  a  wooden  coffee 
tray,  and  Madame  Potier  appeared  with  a  steaming  pot 
and  two  cups.  She  was  pale  round  the  hectic  patches  that 
blazed  in  her  thin  face.  Her  black  eyes  leaped  to  Breagh  's 
with  an  eager  question  in  them  .  .  .  "Have  you  told  her?" 
.  .  .  and  he  answered  with  an  almost  imperceptible  shake 
of  the  head. 

Then  before  either  of  them  knew,  Juliette  had  risen.  She 
went  to  the  little  woman  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  She 
said,  taking  one  of  the  gnarled  work-worn  hands  in  one  of 
hers  and  holding  out  the  other  to  Carolan : 

"Dear  friends,  to  whom  I  owe  so  much,  tell  me  now 
what  in  your  great  compassion  you  have  kept  from  me. 
For  I  think  the  time  has  come  when  I  must  hear ! ' ' 

The  time  had  come,  indeed,  with  the  ring  of  Prussian 
cavalry  hoofs  upon  the  ancient  cobblestones,  and  the  roll 
of  the  carriages  that  came  with  them.  And  before  either 
of  those  the  girl  addressed  could  speak  in  answer,  the  res- 
onant sound  of  a  Prussian  trumpet  pierced  their  silence : 

"Clear  the  way!  Clear  the  way!  Here  comes  the  King!" 

And  followed  a  cry,  pitiful  as  the  wail  of  a  hare  in  a  gin 
trap:  "Those  are  Prussians!"  .  .  .  and  another  scream, 
shrill  and  thin  and  clear.  .  .  .  Then  a  crash!  .  .  .  Ma- 
dame Potier  had  dropped  her  coffee  tray.  .  .  .  Before  the 
hot  steam  of  the  spilled  liquid  rose  up  from  the  Tessier 
carpet,  the  small  hand  Breagh  had  clasped  was  suddenly, 
violently  snatched  from  him.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  but 
Madame  Potier  had  been  quicker  than  he.  She  had  caught 
the  girl  round  the  waist,  and  now  wrestled  with  her.  .  .  . 
The  silent,  desperate  strife  was  horrible.  The  slender 
black-clad  figure  writhed  for  freedom  like  a  snake.  .  .  . 
Then  all  at  once  the  life  seemed  to  go  out  of  it.  ...  They 
carried  her  to  the  sofa  and  laid  her  down.  .  .  . 

"Monsieur  should  have  told  her!"  Madame  Potier  said 
angrily.  "Why  leave  it  to  the  Prussians  to  break  the 
news?  ..."  Tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks  as  she 
unfastened  the  girl's  dress,  and  rubbed  the  limp  hands, 


544  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

while  Breagh  dropped  Cognac  between  the  little  teeth,  a 
drop  or  two  at  a  time. 

And  presently  Juliette  was  looking  at  them,  not  wildly, 
and  Madame  Potier  was  answering:  "It  was  nothing! 
.  .  .  Madame  was  startled  into  an  attack  of  faintness  when 
I  was  so  clumsy  as  to  drop  the  coffee  tray.  Now  I  shall  go 
and  get  more,  and  Monsieur  will  talk  quietly  to  Madame 
as  she  lies  there.  She  must  hear  everything  that  we  have 
kept  from  her.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes !  that  is  quite  understood ! ' ' 

And  she  clumped  away,  with  a  backward  glance  of  dis- 
dain directed  at  the  masculine  boggier,  and  Breagh  drew  a 
chair  near  the  sofa  where  his  wan  Infanta  lay,  and  sat 
down  and  told  her  all. 

Red  sunset  flooded  the  autumn  garden  as  he  talked.  Not 
a  leaf  stirred,  hardly  a  bird  uttered  a  nooning  note.  But 
the  strange  sound  that  had  haunted  not  only  the  ears  of 
Juliette  went  on  incessantly.  It  was  the  sighing  and  whis- 
pering and  muttering  of  the  vast  crowds  that  had  filled  the 
Rue  des  Chantiers  behind  the  lines  of  troops  to  witness 
the  entrance  of  the  conquerors,  and  now  gorged  the  great 
Place  of  the  Prefecture  (above  whose  entrance  flaunted 
the  standard  of  the  Hohenzollerns) — filled  the  upper  end 
of  the  Avenue  de  Paris — and  surged  over  the  vast  expanse 
of  the  Place  d'Armes,  beating  in  black  and  restless  human 
waves  against  the  lofty  blue  and  golden  railings  of  the 
Royal  Chateau,  above  whose  golden  dome  floated  the  black- 
and-white  Prussian  Standard  and  the  white  Flag  with  the 
red  Geneva  Cross. 

We  know  what  he  had  to  tell  her.  .  .  .  The  false  step  of 
MacMahon,  the  unavailing  attempt  of  Bazaine  to  break  out 
of  Metz,  the  conflict  on  the  Meuse,  ending  in  defeat  and 
the  loss  of  7,000  prisoners  with  guns  and  transport.  The 
flight  and  escape  of  the  Emperor  to  the  fortress  city  of 
Sedan.  .  .  .  The  battle  between  the  ill-led,  unfed,  dispirited 
French  forces  and  the  Three  Armies.  The  taking  of  20,000 
French  prisoners,  the  wound  of  MacMahon,  leading  to  his 
resignation  of  the  chief  command  into  the  hands  of  General 
Wimpffen,  summoned  from  his  command  in  Algeria  in  time 
to  capitulate.  The  pitiable  surrender  of  the  Emperor's 
sword  to  the  King  of  Prussia.  His  transport  into  Belgium 
as  a  prisoner  of  War.  The  flight  of  the  Empress  from  the 
Tuileries.  The  formation  at  Paris  of  the  New  Government 
of  National  Defense.  The  entry  of  the  King  of  Prussia 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  545 

into  Rheims,  and  the  arrival  of  the  First  and  Third  Armies 
in  force  before  Paris.  The  fight  upon  the  heights  of  Cha- 
tillon — the  defeat  of  Ducrot  by  a  Bavarian  Division — the 
German  advance  upon  Nemours  and  Pitiviers — the  invest- 
ment of  the  capital,  now  encircled  with  an  iron  ring. 

For  three  days  the  Crown  Prince  had  been  established 
with  his  Staff  at  the  Prefecture.  This  day  had  seen 
the  Great  Headquarters  of  the  Prussian  King  removed 
to  Versailles,  from  Baron  Rothschild's  Castle  of  Fer- 
rieres.  .  .  . 

Truly  it  had  been  time  to  break  the  news  to  Juliette. 
She  lay  still  during  the  recital,  only  quivering  now  and 
then.  She  drank  the  coffee  when  Madame  Potier  brought 
it,  and  thanked  the  faithful  soul  affectionately.  "When  the 
gas  lamps  were  lighted,  and  the  shutters  shut,  she  bade 
P.  C.  Breagh  good  night  in  a  faint  whisper,  and  gave  him 
both  hands,  saying  with  a  liquid  glance : 

' '  Tliank  you,  my  friend !  .  .  . " 

He  whispered  as  he  kissed  the  little  fingers : 

"You  will  sleep  to-night,  will  you  not?  ..." 

And  she  nodded  in  assent.  But  when  he  had  gone  to 
his  bed  at  the  cottage,  the  old  terrible  thoughts  came 
crowding  back. 

That  electrifying  blast  of  glorious  sound  from  the  silver 
instrument  of  the  Great  Staff  trumpeter  had  wakened  and 
brought  them  like  hornets  buzzing  and  stinging  about  her 
ears.  .  .  .  She  longed  for  her  friend,  but  he  had  departed. 
And  the  loneliness  was  too  terrible  to  bear. 

She  caught  up  a  little  white  shawl  that  she  had  brought 
with  her,  and  often  wore  when  walking  in  the  garden  upon 
chilly  evenings,  or  going  to  Mass  in  the  early  mornings, 
before  the  sunshine  had  warmed  the  air.  One  turn  of  the 
wrist  draped  it  faultlessly  about  her  head  and  body.  Thus 
shielded,  she  went  into  the  hall,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  the 
lock  of  the  door. 

As  she  did  so,  cavalry  horses  ridden  at  a  sharp  trot  came 
clattering  down  the  cobbled  street.  They  were  pulled  up 
outside  the  Tessier  mansion.  There  was  an  imperious  tug 
at  the  gate  bell.  She  waited  for  the  opening  of  the  kitchen 
door. 

Then  she  heard  it  unlocked,  and  the  clatter  of  Madame 
Potier 's  clogs  upon  the  terrace.  Klop — klop — Jclop!  they 
crossed  the  leads,  descended  the  three  steps  that  led  to  the 


546  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

gravel  walk,  and  went  on  to  the  iron  gate.  It  was  locked, 
as  always,  in  the  absence  of  Madame  Tessier.  Presently 
the  keys  clashed,  the  lock  scrooped  back  from  the  mortise, 
and  the  hinges  uttered  a  protesting  cry.  .  .  . 

Then  the  harsh  tones  of  a  man,  speaking  French  with  a 
frightful  German  accent,  turned  the  listening  girl  to  ice. 
There  was  an  exclamation  from.  Madame  Potier,  a  rejoinder 
in  the  stranger 's  gutturals.  A  horse  trampled.  The  rough 
voice  of  the  rider  swore  at  the  brute  in  German.  Then 
there  was  a  clatter  of  boots  upon  the  pavement,  with  a 
great  clinking  of  spurs  and  scabbard,  and  the  now-dis- 
mounted rider  said  in  his  infamous  French  jargon : 

"Go  you  before  and  open!  His  Excellency  is  coming 
in!" 

Terrified,  Madame  Potier  obeyed  .  .  .  scuttling  across 
the  terrace  like  a  frightened  beetle.  Juliette,  paralyzed 
with  horror,  heard  the  heavy  spurred  footsteps  crunch  and 
jingle  up  the  gravel  walk  and  ascend  the  steps  to  the  hall 
door.  Almost  directly,  as  little  Madame  Potier  darted 
panting  up  the  stairs  from  the  kitchen,  the  hall  doorbell 
clanged  a  deafening  peal. 

A  carriage  had  rolled  down  the  Rue  de  Provence,  and 
stopped  before  the  smaller  gate,  ere  the  doorbell's  iron 
echoes  had  ceased  shouting  through  the  house  of  the  Tes- 
siers.  There  were  other  voices  at  the  gate,  other  footsteps 
upon  the  gravel.  .  .  .  They  mounted  the  steps.  A  res- 
onant, unforgotten  voice  said  to  the  ringer  in  Ger- 
man : 

"The  Herr  Intendant  General  may  spare  himself  the 
trouble.  ...  I  will  interview  the  people  of  the  house  my- 
self!" 

The  person  addressed  replied  in  the  harsh  tones  that 
had  terrified  Madame  Potier : 

"But  supposing  Your  Excellency  be  met  with  some  in- 
solence? ..." 

The  resonant  voice  answered  with  a  smile  in  it:  "In 
that  case,  Herr  Intendant  General,  my  Excellency  will  take 
the  risk.  There  are  only  women  in  the  house,  and  should 
they  offer  violence,  I  have  Count  Hatzfeldt  and  Count  Bis- 
marck-Bohlen  here !  .  .  . " 

There  was  a  laugh — gay,  mellow,  and  careless — and  a 
young  man 's  voice  answered : 

"Your  Excellency  may  safely  rely  on  our  protection ! " 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  547 

There  was  another  laugh.  Under  cover  of  it,  Madame 
Potier  hissed  into  the  head  folds  of  the  white  shawl : 

"They  have  quartered  the  Prussian  Chancellor  and  the 
Foreign  Office  upon  us.  That  is  what  the  sacred  brute  in 
the  big  boots  and  spectacles  shouted,  when  I  Avent  down 
to  open  the  front  gate.  .  .  .  What  is  the  Prussian  Foreign 
Office?" 

From  the  white  folds  of  the  shawl  a  sibilant  whisper 
hissed  at  her: 

"It  is  a  man.  They  call  him  Count  Bismarck.  Now 
if  you  love  me,  be  quiet,  and  watch  and  listen.  He  shall 
ring  the  bell  with  his  own  hand.  .  .  .  Then  I  open  the 
door!  .  .  .." 

"But,  Madame!  ..."  whispered  the  distracted  care- 
taker. 

No  verbal  answer.  .  .  .  The  white  shawl  pulled  closer, 
shrouding  round  the  slender  form  and  girlish  features.  A 
little  hand,  firm  and  unfaltering,  ready  upon  the  latch  of 
the  door. 

Poor  Potier  whimpered.  .  .  . 

"Madame  Charles.  .  .  .  My  child!  my  treasure!  for  the 
love  of  Christ  and  Mary !  .  .  .  Tell  me  what  you  are  going 
to  do!" 

The  bell  rang  again,  with  a  new  and  imperious  hand 
upon  it.  She  well  knew  whose  was. the  hand.  And  the 
snow-water  in  her  veins  became  liquid  fire.  She  threw 
open  the  hall  door  and  stepped  back  to  admit  the  Man  of 
Iron. 

He  stood  upon  the  doorsteps  like  the  house's  master,  a 
huge  dominating  figure,  dressed  as  she  had  seen  him  on 
the  battlefield  of  Gravelotte,  in  his  high  black,  pewter- 
buttoned  military  frock  and  white  peaked  Cuirassier  cap, 
riding  cords,  and  great  black  jack-boots  with  long  steel 
spurs.  He  was  powdered  with  dust  as  a  man  newly  come 
off  a  journey,  though  his  boots  were  clean,  for  he  had 
driven  in  a  carriage  from  FerriereS.  Upon  the  step  below 
him  stood  Count  Hatzfeldt,  his  First  Secretary,  a  man  of 
thirty,  tall,  broad-shouldered,  and  debonnaire,  wearing,  as 
did  Bismarck-Bohlen,  the  semi-military  Foreign  Office  un- 
dress. The  lean  trap-jawed  personage  in  a  dark  uniform 
with  velvet  facings,  whom  we  must  recognize  as  the  Inten- 
dant  General,  waited  in  the  background,  glaring  through 
his  spectacles  at  the  tardy  portress  in  the  white  shawl,  and 


548  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  peaked  face  and  flaring  black  eyes  of  little  Madame 
Potier,  who  stood  beside  her  mistress  as  ready  to  spit 
and  scratch  for  her  sake  as  a  pussy  cat  to  defend  its 
young. 

There  was  no  pause.  The  dominating  figure  stepped 
into  the  hall.  His  great  Cuirassier  sword  clanked  on  the 
threshold.  He  touched  the  peak  of  his  cap  with  his  bare 
right  hand,  and  said,  looking  down  from  his  great  height 
upon  the  women: 

''This  is  the  house  of  the  Famille  Tessier?" 

One  of  the  women,  who  was  swaddled  in  a  white  shawl, 
dropped  him  a  stiff  little  middle-class  reverence.  Behind 
her,  the  other  bobbed  a  serving  woman's  curtsy.  He  went 
on,  addressing  White  Shawl  as  the  superior : 

"This  house,  Madame,  has  been  selected  as  the  official 
residence  of  the  Prussian  Foreign  Office.  We  shall  pay 
you  an  adequate  sum  for  our  accommodation,  and  remain 
here  some  weeks  .  .  .  possibly  three." 

He  glanced  at  Hatzfeldt,  and  said  with  a  flicker  of  sar- 
donic humor  playing  in  his  heavy  blue  eyes,  and  about  the 
corners  of  the  deeply  cut  mouth  that  was  masked  by  the 
heavy  iron-gray  mustache: 

"  Though  the  actual  duration  of  the  visit  depends — not 
upon  ourselves — but  upon  the  decision  of  the  United  Ger- 
man Powers,  and  the  position  which  they  shall  decide  to 
take  up  with  regard  to  Conditions  of  Peace.  We  are  not 
the  invited  guests  of  France,  whose  stay  can  be  cut  short 
because  our  manners  do  not  prepossess  our  hostess.  We 
came  because  we  thought  it  advisable  ...  we  will  go  when 
it  is  convenient  to  depart ! ' ' 

' '  If  Jules  Faure  could  hear  Your  Excellency !  .  .  . "  said 
Bismarck-Bohlen,  grinning. 

"He  would  cast  up  his  fine  eyes  more  tragically  than  he 
did  at  Ferrieres, "  said  Hatzfeldt,  "when  the  three  words, 
'Forfeiture  of  Territory,'  drew  from  them  so  many  patri- 
otic tears.  ..." 

"He  is  a  weeper,"  said  the  Minister,  pulling  off  his  left 
glove,  "and  Wimpffen  was  a  posturer,  with  his  'Moi,  soldat 
de  I'Armce  Franqais' — and  the  Duke  of  FitzJames  is  a 
manufacturer  of  bugaboos.  .  .  .  Our  German  caricaturists 
should  draw  him  as  a  pavement  artist,  holding  the  hat  be- 
side a  horrible  red-and-yellow  chalk  picture  of  our  atro- 
cious cruelties  in  Bazeilles." 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  549 


LXIV 

know  that  Bazeilles  had  been  on  the  thirty-first  of 
August  a  town  of  2,000  inhabitants,  mostly  weavers,  gath- 
ered about  the  ancient  chateau  that  sheltered  the  boyhood 
of  the  great  Turenne.  Bazeilles  had  not  observed  the 
Law  of  the  Neutrality  of  the  non-combatant.  The  village 
had  formed  the  extreme  right  of  the  French  position  on  the 
day  of  the  Battle  of  Sedan.  Lebrun's  Corps  had  occupied 
it,  and  its  inhabitants  had  been  seized  with  the  fighting 
fever,  and  had  helped  to  hold  back  a  Bavarian  Division  for 
nearly  six  hours.  Elderly  civilians  armed  with  antiquated 
rifles  had  displayed  desperate  bravery.  One  old  woman, 
possessed  of  an  ancient  horse  pistol,  is  said  to  have  shot 
down  three  of  the  enemy.  The  men,  their  women  and 
children,  were  now  cinders  mixed  with  heaps  of  calcined 
brickbats.  The  grim  lesson  had  been  taught  very  thor- 
oughly. Bazeilles  served  as  an  object-lesson  on  Prussian 
methods  throughout  the  remainder  of  the  War. 

"I  will  remember  Bazeilles!"  had  flashed  through  the 
young  head  that  was  swaddled  in  white  woolen.  "My 
friend  shall  not  forget  to  tell  me  what  was  done  there!" 

But  the  imperious  hand  of  the  Minister  was  upon  the 
door  of  the  billiard  room.  She  saw  it  summarily  thrown 
open.  He  went  in,  followed  by  Hatzfeldt,  Bismarck- 
Bohlen  at  their  heels. 

"Capital!"  he  said  to  them.  ""We  will  have  this  ar- 
ranged as  a  Bureau  for  the  Councilors,  the  dispatch  secre- 
taries, and  the  cipherers.  What  is  this  ? ' '  He  went  to  the 
glass  door  that  led  into  the  winter  garden,  looked  through, 
and  commented  :  ' '  One  could  smoke  a  cigar  here  after  din- 
ner in  wet  weather ;  very  well,  it  seems  to  me ! " 

The  owner  of  the  quick  ears  sheltered  by  the  shawl  of 
white  woolen  understood  but  little  German,  as  she  had 
previously  said  to  her  absent  comrade.  But  what  slight 
lore  she  had  in  the  abhorred  tongue  had  been  gained  in 
conversation  with  a  Prussian  mistress.  She  found  that, 
thanks  to  the  enemy's  clear,  melodious  diction,  she  had  no 
great  difficulty  in  comprehending  the  substance  of  what 
he  said. 

His  long  heavy  strides  carried  him  next  into  the  drawing- 


550  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

room,  that  apartment  destined  to  become  famous  in  history 
as  the  seat  of  the  various  negotiations  which  led  to  the 
treaties  with  the  States  of  South  Germany,  the  proclama- 
tion of  the  King  of  Prussia  as  German  Emperor,  and  later, 
to  the  surrender  of  the  City  of  Paris,  and  the  settlement  of 
the  Conditions  of  Peace.  The  simply  furnished,  medium- 
sized  room  boasted  a  few  mediocre  oil  paintings,  a  cottage 
piano,  a  sofa,  some  easy-chairs,  and  wall  mirrors  framed  in 
handsomely  wrought  ormolu.  Upon  a  little  table  against 
the  wall  stood  an  old-world  timepiece,  surmounted  by  a 
bronze  figure  with  fiendish  attributes,  which  engaged  his 
attention  curiously.  His  great  laugh  burst  out,  as  he  con- 
templated the  grotesque. 

"Now,"  he  said,  his  voice  still  shaken  by  amusement, 
' '  if  that  malignant  little  demon  be  a  model  of  the  guardian 
spirit  of  the  Famille  Tessier,  the  Socialists  and  Ultra- 
montane will  be  of  opinion  that  I  have  come  to  the  right 
shop!" 

The  young  men  laughed  at  the  jest  uproariously.  He 
joined  them,  crushing  down  their  lighter  merriment  with 
a  mirthful  giant's  thunderous  "Ha,  ha!  .  .  ."  Then  the 
double  doors  of  the  drawing-room  opened.  He  came  out 
with  his  followers  into  the  hall  place,  demanding  of  little 
Madame  Potier  in  fluent  French  whether  gas  was  laid  on  in 
the  rooms  above: 

"I  think  it  probable,  for  you  are  a  luxurious  people  in 
your  habits,  even  down  to  the  bourgeoisie  and  peasantry  of 
France.  At  home,  I  am  accustomed  to  go  to  bed  with  a 
candle,  and  blow  it  out  when  I  get  between  the  sheets.  But 
here  in  Gallia  I  shall  do  as  the  Gauls ! ' ' 

"There  is  gas  in  the  bedrooms,  Monseigneur ! "  shrilled 
White  Shawl. 

"So!"  He  looked  down  from  his  great  height  upon  the 
speaker.  She  caught  up  a  box  of  matches  from  the  hall 
table  and  thrust  it  into  Madame  Potier 's  shaking  hand.  .  .  . 

"Go  up  quickly.  Light  the  gas  in  the  bedrooms.  Mon- 
seigneur wishes  to  examine  them  all!"  She  added  in  her 
shrill  voice :  ' '  They  are  in  use  at  the  moment,  but  can  be 
vacated  and  got  ready  for  the  occupation  of  Monseigneur 
in  something  less  than  half  an  hour!"  She  broke  off  to 
shriek  to  the  ascending  Madame  Potier.  .  .  .  "Quicker, 
Jeannette!  Thou  art  always  as  slow  as  a  tortoise!  .  .  . 
But  I  come  myself!  ..."  And  with  a  halting,  shuffling 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  551 

gait  which  made  Count  Bismarck-Bohlen  grin,  and  even 
the  polished  Hatzfeldt  put  up  his  eyeglass,  she  jerked 
across  the  beeswaxed  parquet  of  the  hall,  and  mounted  the 
gray-and-red  drugget-covered  stairs. 

What  virtue  lies  in  contrasts !  When  Juliette  de  Bayard 
walked,  you  learned  what  poetry  could  be  in  simple  motion. 
Her  skirts  had  a  rhythmic  swing  and  flow.  Those  little 
feet  of  hers  made  twenty  steps  to  the  stride  of  an  ordinary 
English  girl.  At  Mass,  when  folded  in  her  white  School 
veil,  she  advanced  to  the  Communion  rail  to  receive  the 
Blessed  Sacrament,  she  swam,  she  rocked  as  though  up- 
borne on  waves  of  buoyant  ether.  Watching  her,  you 
would  have  said  that  thus  Our  Lady  must  have  glided 
onward,  bearing  the  gracious  burden  of  her  Divine  Child. 

This  peacock-voiced  creature  who  hid  under  a  white 
shawl  what  the  men  who  sneered  at  her  dimly  felt  must 
be  a  countenance  ugly  to  repulsiveness,  had  one  shoulder 
thrust  upward  and  forward,  reaching  nearly  to  the  ear  on 
that  side.  ...  A  palpable  curvature  of  the  spine  caused 
the  curious  gait,  and  possibly  to  this  deformity  might  be 
attributed  the  voice  that  was  so  harsh,  raucous,  and  tortur- 
ing to  the  ear. 

"Do  not  laugh.  ...  It  is  pitiable  rather  than  ridicu- 
lous," she  heard  her  enemy  say,  in  his  own  tongue. 

Hot  wrath,  fulminating  indignation,  mingled  in  Juliette 
with  the  pride  of  the  comedian  who  has  made  an  effective 
exit.  ...  To  be  pitied  by  him,  and  for  a  second  time! 
That  liquid  flame  that  circulated  through  her  veins,  illumi- 
nated her  brain  in  its  every  cell  and  convolution.  By  its 
lurid  light  she  saw  her  own  intention  in  all  its  ugliness. 
Was  she  to  blame,  who  had  fled  from  this  her  destiny  ?  Had 
she  sought  for  her  vengeance  ?  Of  his  own  will  had  he  not 
come,  this  world-shaking  Colossus,  to  find  his  Fate  waiting 
for  him  ? 

And  Breagh.  What  of  her  promise  to  her  comrade? 
The  thought  was  a  knife-keen  stab  compelling  a  shriek. 
She  stifled  it  in  the  folds  of  the  shawl,  bent  down  her  head, 
and  with  an  exaggeration  of  the  grotesque  gait,  scuttled 
upstairs  with  the  agility  of  an  escaping  spider,  provoking 
a  guffaw  from  the  Twopenny  Roue,  a  laugh  from  the  well- 
bred  Hatzfeldt,  even  a  deep  chuckle  from  the  Enemy.  Let 
him  laugh!  As  she  fled  from  room  to  room,  and  the  gas 
jets  leaped  up  flaring  and  shrieking  under  her  small,  fierce 


552  THE    MAN   OF,   IRON 

hand,  like  little  Furies  and  Vengeances,  and  tell-tale  ar- 
ticles of  feminine  attire  and  use  were  caught  up  and  thrust' 
into  a  small  portmanteau,  she  bade  him  laugh  as  much  as  he 
would.  As  she  opened  a  cupboard  by  the  chimney-piece 
where  Madame  Tessier  had  kept  medicine  and  cosmetics, 
and  took  from  the  shelf  a  flat-topped,  wide-mouthed  chem- 
ist's vial,  and  thrust  it  within  her  dress,  deep  into  her 
bosom,  she  told  herself  that  France  should  laugh  before 
long ! 

Meanwhile,  her  enemy  and  France's  waited,  chatting  in 
the  hall  at  the  foot  of  the  stair.  When  she  descended,  he 
went  up  with  Hatzfeldt  and  Bismarck-Bohlen,  and  made  a 
brief  inspection  of  the  rooms.  His  own  choice  was  made 
with  the  least  delay  possible.  Opening  from  the  square, 
skylighted  landing  at  the  head  of  the  main  staircase,  was 
a  room,  some  ten  paces  long  and  seven  broad,  lighted  by 
one  window  on  the  right  side  of  the  main  front,  looking 
toward  the  stables,  and  commanding  a  view  of  the  pleas- 
ance  and  shrubbery  from  two  more  windows  in  the  east- 
ward wall.  This  apartment,  which  was  partly  above  the 
dining  room,  and  had  been  occupied  by  Madame  Charles 
Tessier,  the  Minister  appropriated  to  his  own  use.  A  second 
room,  communicating  with  this,  and  looking  on  the  pleas- 
ance,  and  boasting  also  a  glass  window  door  leading  out 
upon  the  iron  bridge  topping  the  conservatory  on  the  south 
side,  he  set  apart  for  Bismarck-Bohlen. 

A  somewhat  better-furnished  room  looking  upon  the 
Eue  de  Provence  would  serve,  as  would  the  drawing-room 
upon  the  ground  floor,  for  the  reception  of  strangers  and 
guests.  Privy  Councilor  Abeken  would  occupy  the  bed- 
room next  to  this,  also  with  an  outlook  upon  the  Rue  de 
Provence.  A  tiny  cell  near  the  back  stairs,  only  big  enough 
to  hold  a  bed,  chest  of  drawers,  and  washstand,  was  set 
apart  for  Secretary  Bolsing.  Upon  the  second  floor  Dr. 
Busch  or  Privy  Councilor  Bucher  would  occupy  the  best 
bedroom,  the  two  Prussian  body  servants  from  the  Wil- 
helm-Strasse  sleeping  in  the  attic  overhead.  The  two  re- 
maining chambers  on  the  second  floor — small,  angular,  ill- 
ventilated  places — the  women  of  the  house  were  free  to 
move  into,  and  retain,  if  they  desired.  "Only  in  that 
case,"  said  the  masterful  voice,  "they  must  contribute  their 
services  toward  keeping  the  house  in  order.  Where  I 
live,  there  must  be  no  idlers.  That  is  understood!" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  553 

Below  in  the  hall,  White  Shawl  and  Madame  Potier 
heard  his  strong  laugh  echoing  amid  the  empty  chambers 
and  his  heavy  stride  shaking  the  rafters  above  their  heads. 

"I  am  pleased  with  my  room,  though  it  has  a  window 
opening  toward  the  stables,  where  the  detachment  of  troops 
supplying  the  sentries  will  be  quartered  for  the  present, 
with  my  orderly  and  coachman  and  the  two  grooms.  But 
common  sights  do  not  annoy  me,  any  more  than  common 
noises,  and  there  are  two  other  windows  overlooking  the 
park.  The  trees  in  their  autumn  coloring  will  remind  me 
of  my  own  woodlands  at  home.  Altogether  the  place  has 
been  chosen  intelligently.  A  more  roomy  and  better-fur- 
nished house  might  afford  spiteful  people  an  excuse  to 
accuse  the  Chancellor  of  the  Confederated  States  of  luxury 
— the  love  of  which  has  never  been  a  besetting  sin  of  mine. 
True,  I  must  have  a  table  supplied  well,  punctually,  and 
generously.  .  .  .  That  is  always  an  understood  thing.  A 
sine  qua  non,  in  fact.  .  .  .  The  King  is  quite  aware  of  this. 
...  I  told  him  again  yesterday,  .  .  .  'Sire,  I  must  be  fed 
properly  if  I  am  to  make  proper  terms  of  peace!'  ' 

His  great  laugh  sounded  again  as  he  came  trampling 
downstairs,  bringing  with  him  a  masculine  perfume  of 
Eussian  leather  and  cigars  of  super-excellent  quality.  And 
Hatzfeldt  was  saying  in  his  languid,  well-bred  accents: 

"With  Your  Excellency's  permission,  I  will  now  take 
leave  of  you — I  must  go  and  see  the  place  where  I  am 
quartered.  It  is  at  No.  25,  Avenue  St.  Cloud." 

"So,  then.  ...  A  pretty  good  distance  from  the  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Confederation,  should  he  require  at  some  un- 
usual hour  the  services  of  his  First  Secretary.  .  .  .  You 
will  have  to  find  the  Count  more  convenient  lodgings." 
The  Minister  turned  to  the  Intendant  General,  who  barked : 

"At  Your  Excellency's  honorable  orders,  the  change 
shall  be  immediately  made ! ' ' 

"Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  not  to-night!"  expostulated 
Hatzfeldt,  with  graceful  peevishness.  ' '  I  am  horribly  done 
up  with  the  heat  and  the  dust  we  had  on  our  way  here. 
"Why  should  the  King  have  dragged  us  to  Choissy-le-Roi, 
in  order  to  see  the  troops?  Cannot  he  see  troops  every 
hour  of  his  existence  ?  Ah,  by  the  way !  Did  Your  Excel- 
lency notice  that  at  Villeneuve  St.  George  the  bridge  of 
boats  had  been  blown  up  ? " 

The  Minister  shrugged : 


554  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Who  can  understand  this  destructive  mania?  It  is  a 
national  disease  peculiar  to  the  French.  Since  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war,  they  have  destroyed  bridges  and  railways 
to  the  tune  of  millions — for  the  sheer  pleasure,  one  would 
suppose,  of  building  them  up  again.  "Well,  good  night!" 
He  held  out  his  hand  pleasantly  to  Hatzfeldt.  "Good 
night  to  you,  Herr  Intendant  General ! ' ' 

The  Intendant  saluted  stiffly  and  barked  in  his  peculiar 
style : 

"I  wish  a  very  good  night  to  Your  Excellency!"  Then 
he  clanked  down  the  steps  after  Hatzfeldt  and  over  the 
gravel  walk  to  the  front  gate. 

"I  know  what  Count  Paul  has  it  in  his  mind  to  do," 
chuckled  Bismarck-Bohlen,  looking  after  them.  "He  will 
take  a  bath  and  dine  at  the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs. ' ' 

"It  would  not  be  a  bad  plan  to  follow  his  example,"  said 
the  Minister,  "since  some  of  the  Foreign  Office  fourgons 
may  be  late  in  getting  here.  Unless  Madame  Tessier  is 
prepared  to  supply  us  with  a  dinner  upon  the  spur  of  the 
call?" 

He  added: 

"Come,  shut  the  hall  door.  I  see  they  have  already 
placed  sentries.  The  grooms  and  Niederstedt  will  bring 
in  the  luggage  by  the  back  door  and  up  the  servants '  stair- 
case. ' '  He  continued  as  Bismarck-Bohlen  obeyed :  ' '  They 
are  particular  about  such  matters  in  French  houses,  where 
there  is  so  much  wax  polishing  of  the  floors  and  woodwork. 
Where  are  the  women?  .  .  .  There  were  two.  A  bonne  and 
her  mistress,  the  proprietress.  ..."  His  powerful  glance 
fell  upon  them  standing  near  the  doorway  of  the  dining- 
room.  He  motioned  them  to  enter,  and  followed  them  in. 

"Madame  Tessier!"  he  began,  taking  as  by  right  the 
chair  at  the  head  of  the  long  shining  dinner  table,  upon 
which  the  tapestry  cloth  had  not  yet  been  replaced.  He 
looked  at  White  Shawl.  The  shrill  voice  cackled : 

"Madame  Tessier  is  in  Belgium.  ...  I  am  Madame 
Charles  Tessier,  the  wife  of  Monsieur,  her  son ! ' ' 

He  said  in  his  excellent  French,  laying  on  the  table  the 
flat  white  Cuirassier  cap  he  had  removed  on  entering : 

"I  congratulate  M.  Tessier!  Can  your  servant  cook, 
Madame?" 

The  shrill  voice  responded : 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  555 

"Monseigneur  must  be  judge  of  that  when  he  has  tried 
her  dishes.  She  does  her  best — the  excellent  Jeannette !  But 
if  Monseigneur  is  to  be  served  as  befits  his  state  and  conse- 
quence ...  I  should  prefer  to  cook  for  him  myself!" 

"So!"  He  leaned  one  elbow  on  the  table,  meditatively 
regarding  the  speaker,  and  the  lambent  blue  flame  of  humor 
danced  and  flickered  in  his  eyes :  ' '  Since  we  do  not  require 
you  and  your  domestic  to  leave  the  house — only  to  confine 
yourselves  to  the  two  smaller  bedrooms  on  the  second  floor 
— it  may  be  as  well  that  you  should  assist  to  a  degree  in 
the  kitchen.  .  .  .  But  for  all  that  does  not  require  women 
we  have  our  servants — you  understand?  And  the  chef  at- 
tached to  the  service  of  the  Prussian  Chancellery  is  ex- 
tremely competent.  He  is — rather  a  personage  in  his 
way!" 

Bismarck-Bohlen  sniggered  in  his  characteristic  fashion. 

White  Shawl  shrilled,  gesticulating  with  a  hand  that  re- 
sembled a  claw: 

"If  your  Prussian  cooks  better  than  I  do — or  even  the 
chef  of  our  gredin  of  an  Emperor,  he  may  call  me  a  Bona- 
partist  and  I  will  not  slap  his  face ! ' ' 

The  Minister  drew  his  well-shaped  sunbrowned  hand  over 
his  mustache,  perhaps  to  hide  a  smile  at  the  epithet. 
He  asked  with  his  powerful  glance  intent  upon  Madame 
Charles  Tessier: 

' '  So,  then,  you  are  not  a  lover  of  the  Bonapartes  ?  What 
is  your  party?  Are  you  Republican  or  Monarchist?" 

She  shrieked  with  raucous  energy : 

' '  I  am  a  patriot,  and  a  citizeness  of  the  French  Republic ! 
All  my  life  I  have  execrated  the  Bonapartes.  See  you  well 
— I  do  not  love  Prussians!  .  .  .  But  you  have  humiliated 
and  dethroned  this  sacred  pig  of  a  Napoleon.  .  .  .  And  for 
that  I  could  kiss  the  hand  that  received  his  sword ! ' ' 

The  person  to  whom  the  shrill  tirade  was  addressed  lis- 
tened with  imperturbability,  although  Bismarck-Bohlen, 
standing  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  between  the  win- 
dows, involuntarily  clapped  his  hands  to  his  sorely  sacri- 
ficed ears. 

Now  the  Minister  said  in  his  suavest  French  accents : 

' '  The  hand  was  not  mine,  Madame,  I  beg  to  assure  you, 
but  that  of  the  King  of  Prussia,  who  is  hardly  likely  to 
pay  us  a  visit  here.  .  .  .  Should  His  Majesty  elect  to  do  so, 


556  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

your  ambition  may  be  partially  gratified.  You  will  see 
the  monarch  who  has  paid  your  Imperial  bugbear  so  thor- 
oughly well  in  his  own  coin. ' ' 

Here  Bismarck-Bohlen  broke  in.  ...  "Excellency!  .  .  . 
talking  of  coin  .  .  .  you  told  me  ta  remind  you  of  what 
happened  the  other  day.  ..." 

"Ah,  so  I  did!"  said  he.  "It  is  a  mere  coincidence,  but 
worth  remembering.  .  .  .  Upon  leaving  the  weaver's  hovel, 
near  the  village  of  Donchery,  outside  which  you  and  Lever- 
strb'm  waited  while  I  discussed  the  terms  of  the  capitula- 
tion with  Napoleon  in  a  garret  containing  a  table,  a  bed, 
and  two  rush-bottomed  chairs,  the  French  Emperor  pre- 
sented five  pieces  of  gold  to  the  weaver,  which  Leverstrb'm 
afterward  told  me  he  vainly  endeavored  to  buy  of  the  man. 
His  stupidity  or  the  weaver's,  we  will  not  say  now  which 
was  the  greater !  .  .  .  But  the  coins  displayed  in  unbroken 
sequence — the  portraits  of  five  rulers  of  France.  There 
was  Napoleon  I.,  imperially  wreathed,  on  a  fine  fat  piece  of 
1820 ;  a  Louis  XVIII.,  inane  and  aristocratic ;  a  Charles  X., 
with  the  knob  in  his  nose ;  a  Louis  Philippe,  looking  like  a 
'bourgeois,  and  Napoleon  III.,  Emperor  of  Ready-Made 
Plebiscites.  ..."  He  broke  off  to  say:  "And  now,  ^la- 
dame,  what  news  of  this  dinner?  Can  you  supply  it,  or 
must  we  go  elsewhere  ?  Decide.  I  am  always  an  economist 
of  time!" 

And  the  penetrating  glance  shaded  by  the  shaggy  eye- 
brows of  the  Minister  questioned  the  meager  peaked  coun- 
tenance of  which  merely  a  wedge  showed  between  the  cur- 
taining folds  of  the  white  shawl.  .  .  .  Lover  of  good  cheer 
as  he  was,  he  was  perhaps  asking  himself  whether  a  crea- 
ture so  mean  and  pinched-looking  could  set  before  him  the 
nourishing,  well-flavored,  well-cooked  dishes,  calculated  to 
restore  energy  to  his  giant's  frame.  She  was  studying  the 
face  revealed  in  the  circle  of  light  cast  downward  by  the 
shaded  lamps  of  the  gasalier  above  the  dinner  table,  half 
loathing,  half  fascinated  by  the  tremendous  personality 
now  revealed. 

How  much  the  published  portraits  of  the  man  lacked,  she 
realized  now,  clearly.  What  mental  and  physical  power, 
and  force,  and  energy  were  indicated  in  the  lines  of  the 
great  domed  skull  and  the  astonishing  frontal  development. 
What  audacious  courage  and  ironic  humor  were  in  the 
regard  of  the  full  blue  eyes  that  rested  lightly  upon  her 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  557 

own  insignificance.  .  .  .  What  deeply  cut,  pugnacious  nos- 
trils he  had ;  what  a  long  stern  upper  lip  the  full  gray  mus- 
tache curtained !  He  had  a  cleft  in  his  chin  that  reminded 
her  of  a  friend  she  loved.  .  .  . 

This  last  and  the  other  characteristics  of  the  visage  that 
confronted  her  were  fuel  to  her  roaring  furnace  of  hate.  A 
baleful  light  blazed  in  the  eyes  she  curtained  from  him. 
Her  heart  seemed  a  goblet  brimmed  with  intoxicating, 
poisoned  wine.  And  then  a  little  thing  tamed  the  snake  in 
her.  It  drew  in  its  quivering,  forked  tongue,  covered  the 
fangs  that  oozed  with  venom,  lowered  its  hooded  head,  and 
sank  down,  palpitating  among  its  cold  and  scaly  coils. 

With  all  its  power,  the  profound  weariness  of  his  face 
had  suddenly  come  home  to  and  arrested  her.  He  looked, 
as  was  indeed  the  fact,  like  a  man  who  had  not  known  a 
good  night's  rest  for  weeks.  There  were  sagging  pouches 
of  exhaustion  under  the  masterful  eyes,  and  the  lines  about 
the  forehead  and  mouth  and  jaws  were  deeply  trenched 
with  fatigue  and  anxiety.  With  pain,  too,  for  he  was  suf- 
fering from  facial  neuralgia  brought  on  by  nervous  strain 
and  overexposure,  and  divers  galls  and  blisters,  the  result 
of  days  spent  in  the  saddle  by  an  elderly  heavy-weight. 
Now  he  yawned  and  leaned  back  in  his  creaking  chair,  and 
suddenly  was  no  despot  helmed  with  terrors,  armed  with 
power,  mantled  with  ruthlessness,  but  a  man  fagged  out, 
and  tired  and  hungry,  athirst  for  rest  and  the  comforts  of 
home. 

He  had  a  wife  living,  she  knew,  and  sons  serving  in  the 
Prussian  Army.  Perhaps  he  had  a  daughter  who  loved 
him,  too.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  was  thinking  of  him  .  .  .  pray- 
ing for  his  return  in  safety.  .  .  .  Oh,  God !  .  .  .  The  dread- 
ful thought  was  not  to  be  tolerated.  ...  It  must  be  driven 
away  .  .  .  banished  from  the  mind,  if  one  was  to  carry  out 
the  plan.  .  .  . 

All  these  thoughts  volted  through  the  brain  under  the 
white  shawl  in  the  passing  of  an  instant.  The  next,  she 
heard  the  shrill  voice  say: 

"  It  is  for  Monseigneur  to  decide !  .  .  .  There  is  no  diffi- 
culty about  dinner — that  is,  provided  Monseigneur  can  eat 
a  good  soup  of  artichokes  made  with  cream?  ..." 

His  startlingly  blue  eyes  laughed.  He  acquiesced,  seem- 
ing to  snuff  the  air  with  his  deeply  cut  nostrils. 

"There  is  nothing  better  than  puree  of  artichokes — pro- 


558  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

vided  it  serves  as  the  prelude  to  a  solid,  sustaining,  and 
well-cooked  meal." 

White  Shawl  shrilled: 

"There  might  follow  a  six-pound  trout,  boiled,  with 
sauce  a  la  Tartare.  .  .  .  One  came  in  this  afternoon,  fresh 
to  a  miracle,  a  fish  from  the  Gauche  near  Montreuil." 

He  said  to  Bismarck-Bohlen : 

"The  trout  of  the  Gauche  are  capital  eating  .  .  .  espe- 
cially those  caught  in  the  upper  part  of  the  stream,  a  mile 
below  Parenty.  "What  else,  Madame?" 

She  proclaimed  in  the  raucous  voice  that  made  Bismarck- 
Bohlen  grimace  and  shudder: 

"A  dish  of  cutlets  and  a  ragout  of  partridges  with  little 
cabbages.  It  is  now  upon  the  fire,  simmering  in  the  cas- 
serole— I  meant  it  for  next  day ! ' ' 

Like  the  trout,  it  had  been  designed  for  P.  C.  Breagh's 
delectation. 

She  added: 

"And  there  are  a  cold  ham,  a  peach  tart,  and  a  jelly  of 
Maraschino,  and  I  could  toss  up  a  savory  omelette  to  fol- 
low the  sweet  dishes.  As  for  dessert  .  .  .  we  have  pears 
and  plums  from  the  garden.  .  .  .  But,  Monseigneur  ..." 
It  was  greed  that  made  the  woman 's  strange  eyes  glitter  so 
intolerably — "I  shall  be  well  paid  for  the  excellent  food 
and  all  my  trouble,  shall  I  not,  Monseigneur  ?  ...  In  good 
French  money — not  in  Prussian  notes  ? ' ' 

Under  the  heavy  mustache  he  showed  his  sound,  even 
teeth  in  a  laugh  of  enjoyment. 

"In  good  French  money.  You  have  my  promise.  So — 
you  do  not  like  our  Prussian  notes  ? ' ' 

White  Shawl  screamed: 

' '  They  are  good  where  they  come  from,  it  may  be,  Mon- 
seigneur! .  .  .  But  here — the  people  would  as  soon  take 
dead  leaves  for  pay!  ..." 

He  thrust  his  hand  in  his  breeches  pocket,  pulled  out  a 
gold  Napoleon,  and  threw  it  ringing  on  the  shining  table. 
Her  eyes  snapped.  The  little  clawlike  hand  darted  from 
the  folds  of  the  enveloping  white  shawl  and  pounced  on  the 
gold  piece.  She  curtsied  like  an  elder-pith  puppet  to  the 
great  figure  sitting  at  the  table  head,  and  with  the  extraor- 
dinary gait  that  combined  a  hitch,  twist,  and  shuffle,  hob- 
bled out  of  the  room,  shrilling  as  the  door  closed  behind 
her: 


THE    MAN    OF    IROX  559 

"Jeannette!  Jeannette!  Monseigneur  will  dine  here! 
Make  you  up  the  kitchen  fire !  I  will  go  myself  to  the  cel- 
lar and  get  the  fruit.  .  .  .  And  the  wine  .  .  .  Monseigneur 
will  certainly  require  some  wine !  Later  on  you  must  help 
me  get  ready  the  bedrooms.  Put  out  sheets  and  pillow 
cases  to  air ! ' ' 

Bismarck-Bohlen  was  saying,  as  he  followed  his  great 
relative  into  the  drawing-room,  and  extended  himself  upon 
the  green  plush  sofa,  as  the  Minister  selected  the  largest 
armchair,  and  lighted  one  of  his  huge  cigars: 

' '  YVhat  a  woman !    What  a  voice ! ' ' 

The  other  laughed  through  the  fragrant  smoke  rings : 

' '  You  could  say  no  more  and  no  less  of  an  operatic  diva, 
had  you  recently  fallen  a  victim  to  her  charms.  My  land- 
lady pleases  me.  My  tastes,  as  you  know,  are  somewhat 
peculiar.  .  .  .  But  you  need  not  feel  anxious  on  the 
Countess's  behalf.  My  sentiments  in  this  instance  are 
highly  platonic."  He  added,  smoking  and  speaking  almost 
dreamily:  "If  in  cookery  Madame 's  performance  equals 
her  promise,  what  with  trout,  and  partridges  aux  petit 
choux — cold  ham  to  fall  back  on,  and  a  savory  omelette,  we 
ought  not  to  do  badly  at  all!  .  .  .  With  half  a  dozen  bot- 
tles of  that  champagne  we  brought  from  Rheims,  and  a 
little  of  the  Epernay  ..." 

He  added,  yawning  and  stretching  his  great  limbs:  "I 
am  not  usually  poetical,  but  I  have  a  fancy  with  regard  to 
the  deep  blue,  green-fleshed  grapes  of  the  country,  that 
their  color  affects  the  river  into  which  the  hillside  vine- 
yards drain.  The  Marne  water  is  as  brilliant  and  green 
as  though  it  were  made  of  melted  emeralds.  And  the  must 
from  those  grapes  yields  the  best  champagne  of  Rheims 
and  Epernay.  ..."  He  yawned  again  and  went  on: 
' '  There  is  something  in  surroundings !  In  this  house  I  feel 
that  I  can  work  comfortably.  The  view  of  old  trees,  and 
bushes  and  flower  beds  from  the  room  I  have  chosen  as  a 
bedroom  and  study  will  make  one  feel  almost  at  home.  Two 
of  my  servants  shall  sleep  upstairs  in  the  attics — of  which 
there  are  several,  and  my  coachman  Niederstedt — who  was 
my  porter  at  the  Wilhelm  Strasse,  shall  have  a  shakedown 
somewhere  belowstairs.  He  is  as  strong  as  Goliath  and  as 
sharp  as  a  needle.  An  unusual  combination  of  qualities, 
because  giants  are  supposed  by  little  people  to  be  dull- 
witted  and  easily  taken  in ! " 


560  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

He  sent  out  a  long  column  of  fragrant  blue  vapor,  and 
added,  looking  at  the  antique  bronze  clock  surmounted  by 
its  grotesque  bat-winged  shape :  "A  fallacy,  since  I  my- 
self belong  to  the  family  of  the  Anakim.  Do  you  observe 
that  my  landlady 's  familiar  spirit  appears  to  be  winking  at 
what  I  have  just  said?  .  .  .  Kobold  or  gnome,  there  is  a 
family  resemblance  between  his  countenance  and  Madame 's. 
I  must  get  her  to  sell  him  to  me,  to  carry  home  to  Berlin. ' ' 


LXV 

P.  C.  BREACH  had  gone  back  to  his  bedroom  at  the  garden- 
er's cottage,  under  the  garret  where  had  slumbered  the 
unlucky  Jean  Jacques  Potier.  The  pet  rabbits  of  the  young 
man  were  even  now  in  a  hutch  in  the  stable  yard,  and  his 
striped  house  jacket  and  the  green  baize  apron  he  used  to 
wear  when  cleaning  the  Tessier  silver  hung  on  a  hook  in 
Madame  Potier 's  closet,  with  the  civil  integuments  of  M. 
Potier,  now  deceased. 

It  was  too  early  to  go  to  bed.  He  pulled  off  jacket  and 
waistcoat,  filled  and  lighted  the  venerable  briar  root,  and, 
sitting  on  his  bed,  re-perused  by  the  light  of  his  tallow 
candle  a  letter  in  headings,  and  bearing  the  date  of  Sep- 
tember 23rd,  which  may  be  reproduced  as  written,  here : 

288  GREAT  CORAM  STREET, 

LONDON,  W.C. 
''Mr  DEAR  YOUNG  MAN! 

I  WAS  SURPRISED  AND  GRATIFIED 

To  Receive  Letters  dated  respectively  July  28th,  31st, 
August  4th,  llth,  26th,  Sept.  5th,  19th,  from : 

ONE    WHO    HAD   VANISHED 

SWALLOWED  ALIVE 

BY  THE  ROARING  WHIRLPOOL  OF   WAR. 
THEY  ARE  SLAP-UP  AND  NO  MISTAKE  ! 

ROBUST  TO  BRUTALITY  ! 
THEY  HAVE  BEEN  ACCEPTED 

PUBLISHED  AND  PAID  FOR ! 

BY  THREE  SUBURBAN  EDITORS 

SIMULTANEOUSLY. 

A     NEW     IDEA 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  561 

* 

LONG  CHERISHED 

BY  SOLOMON  KNEWBIT. 

A  MAN  BORN  BEFORE  HIS  AGE  ! 

THE  BOSS  OF  A  FLEET  ST.  WEEKLY 

IS  NOW  NIBBLING  AT 

'BANG ! 

A  DOG'S  TALE.' 

Thue  I  Have  Recovered  My  Fifteen  Shiners  And  Have 

Cash  in  Hand 
For  My  Young  Swell 

WHEN  HE  COMES  MARCHING  HOME! 

MARIA      SAYS 
YOU  HAD  BETTER  LOOK   SHARP ! 

AN    IMPORTANT    CLUE 

DISCOVERED   ! 
MYSTERY  OF  LOST  FORTUNE 
ABOUT  TO  BE   CLEARED  UP ! 

ABSCONDING  TRUSTEE 
HAS  BEEN  IDENTIFIED  IN  ECCENTRIC  LODGER 

BY  THE  LANDLADY  ! 
PROOFS  IN  A  SEALSKIN  WAISTCOAT ! 

BE      READY   ! 
AT  ANY  MOMENT  THE  SUMMONS  MAY  COME  ! 

I  remain, 
My  dear  young  man, 

Truly  and  faithfully  yours, 

SOLOMON  KNEWBIT." 


At  the  bottom  of  the  last  page  was  written  in  a  curious 
up-and-down  handwriting : 

"Dr  mr  Breagk, 

"yu  kno  How  mr  Knewbit  Has  a  Way  of  Pitting  Things 
queer  ~but  it  Wold  be  Best  For  you  To  Come  Home  it  Realy 
Wold.  There  Is  a  Pore  Siner  only  Wating  To  maik  Amens 
wick  Is  Mind  must  alwais  Have  Bean  weak  and  People 
Puting  There  Afares  in  the  Hands  of  sutch  a  Trustea  Can 
ixpect  Nothing  but  T ruble,  mr  Chown  of  Furnival's  Inn 
is  To  Be  let  kno  If  He  Gives  Warning  to  Leeve  the  House 
wich  i  think  never  will  Drink  being  got  Hold  of  him  to 
sutch  an  xtent  dear  mr  Breagh  you  have  thought  you  were 


562  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Pore.  But  your  Fortune  of  7,000  Ibs  was  only  took  awai 
by  the  Almighty  Goodness  to  Be  Given  back  again,  trust 
and  beleive.  I  am  Dr  mr  Breagh, 

"Respectfully  and  afexnly 

"Maria  Ling." 

P.  C.  Breagh  folded  up  the  pregnant  pages — owing  to 
Mr.  Knewbit's  professional  predilection  for  capitals  and 
spacings,  the  double  letter  covered  a  good  number — and 
put  them  away  and  began  to  think. 

Would  it  not  be  best  that  Juliette  should  return  to  her 
husband  in  Belgium,  since  M.  Tessier  gave  no  sign  of  re- 
turning ?  And  whether  she  agreed  with  the  notion  of  leav- 
ing Versailles  or  not,  was  it  wise  of  P.  C.  Breagh  to  stay  ? 

He  loved  her.  He  would  love  her  always.  There  were 
times  when  her  eyes  had  tenderness  in  them  for  him.  Those 
unforgettable  days  passed  together  .  .  .  those  strange  and 
dreadful  sights  seen  in  common,  those  perils  mutually  en- 
countered had  made  a  bond  between  them  that  might  never 
be  broken  now. 

But  was  it  wise  to  remain  near  her,  breathing  her  atmos- 
phere, drinking  in  her  rare,  delicate,  exquisite  beauty,  and 
growing  more  besotted  in  his  worship  of  it  with  every  day  ? 
He  knew  that  it  was  not.  By  the  anguish  the  mere  thought 
of  leaving  her  cost  him,  he  realized  how  deeply  the  love  of 
Juliette  Tessier  had  taken  root  in  his  heart. 

His  nature,  as  simple  as  hers  was  complex,  made  it  easy 
to  hold  her  blameless  in  all.  She  had  not  led  him  on.  They 
had  been  flung  together  by  force  of  circumstances.  That 
there  was  something  guileful  in  her  very  guilelessness  never 
suggested  itself  to  Breagh. 

The  gate  bell  pealed  as  he  sat  ruminating,  causing  him 
nearly  to  leap  out  of  his  skin.  That  M.  Tessier  had  re- 
turned was  the  possibility  that  instantly  suggested  itself. 
He  knelt  by  the  window  of  the  low-ceiled  cottage  chamber 
and  leaned  out  into  the  deepening  dusk. 

German  voices  at  the  gate,  the  stamping  of  horses,  and 
the  clinking  of  bridles.  .  .  .  The  grinding  of  heavy  boots 
on  gravel,  the  jingle  of  spurs  and  the  sound  of  scabbards 
scraping  against  the  ground,  rapping  against  the  steps.  A 
pause  and  a  voice  he  knew  said  clearly  and  resonantly : 

"The  Herr  Intendant  General  may  spare  himself  the 
trouble.  I  will  interview  the  people  of  the  house  myself!" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  563 

A  loud  voice  barked  out  something  unintelligible  to  the 
listener,  ending  with  "insolence."  The  voice  of  the  Man 
of  Iron  returned: 

"In  that  case,  my  Excellency  will  take  the  risk.  There 
are  only  women  in  the  house,  and,  should  they  offer  vio- 
lence, I  have  Count  Hatzfeldt  and  Count  Bismarck-Bohlen 
here." 

If  there  were  any  further  words,  the  listener  missed 
them,  so  deafeningly  loud  was  the  drumming  of  the  blood  in 
his  ears.  .  .  .  The  door  was  opened.  There  was  a  gleam 
of  something  white  in  the  dusky  hail  place.  And  He  en- 
tered and  the  other  men  followed  him.  .  .  .  What  did  they 
there  ?  What  was  it  best  to  do  ?  .  .  . 

Now  one  by  one  the  upper  rooms  were  illuminated.  The 
house  door  was  opening.  Two  men  came  out  and  descended 
the  steps.  One  who  walked  lightly  and  hummed  a  tune 
between  the  whiffs  of  his  cigar  passed  away,  still  humming, 
toward  the  Avenue  St.  Cloud.  The  second  who  trailed  a 
clanking  sword  gave  harsh-voiced  orders  in  the  staccato 
tone  of  Prussian  military  authority  to  some  persons  in  the 
street  outside,  mounted  a  charger  held  by  an  orderly,  and 
rode  jingling  away  toward  the  Boulevard  de  la  Reine.  His 
helmet  and  his  orderly 's  could  be  seen  bobbing  over  the  top 
of  the  wall  that  screened  the  Tessier  house  from  the  Rue 
de  Provence,  and  the  dark  silhouettes  of  the  heads  and 
bodies  of  men  who  crowded  the  double  box  seats  of  two 
private  luggage  vans  that  waited  beyond  the  porte-cochere 
under  an  escort  of  cavalry.  No  doubt  they  were  fourgons 
sacred  to  the  traveling  Foreign  Office  of  the  Minister,  bear- 
ing, besides  the  material  of  diplomatic  labor,  a  working 
staff  of  Chancery  clerks.  Other  vehicles  were  waiting,  and 
videttes  of  cavalry  were  posted  at  each  end  of  the  quiet 
street.  The  trampling  of  their  horses  could  be  heard  dis- 
tinctly, with  certain  gruff  admonitions,  presumably  ad- 
dressed to  pedestrians  desirous  of  using  the  thoroughfare. 

Now  the  leaves  of  the  porte-cochere  were  being  opened 
and  hooked  back  by  the  dusky  silhouettes  of  a  couple  of 
men.  Liveried  grooms,  because  of  stray  gleams  of  light 
flashed  back  from  buttons  and  cockades.  Light  thrown  by 
the  blazing  yellow  lamps  of  a  large,  empty,  traveling  lan- 
dau that  rolled  in  under  the  lozenged  archway,  at  the  heels 
of  a  splendid  pair.  The  horses  smelt  of  dust  and  sweat, 
and  whinnied  as  they  whiffed  the  stables.  They  were  driven 


564  THE    MAN   OF   IRON 

by  a  huge  coachman,  and  a  second  carriage  followed,  piled 
with  luggage,  and  containing  three  persons,  who  might  have 
been  secretaries  or  body  servants,  one  could  not  decide. 
Four  led  horses  followed,  guided  by  orderlies  of  Cuiras- 
siers. These  did  not  follow  the  carriages,  as  they  turned  up 
the  short  avenue  and  pulled  up  at  the  hall  door.  The 
orderlies,  quite  as  though  they  knew  the  place,  rode  down 
the  longer  gravel  drive  that  ended  at  the  gates  of  the  stable 
yard.  One  trooper  got  down  and  opened  the  gates,  and  the 
eager  horses  were  conducted  in. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp!  .  .  . 

A  detachment  of  infantry,  marching  down  the  Rue  de 
Provence.  Turning  in  under  the  archway  of  the  carriage 
entrance,  an  eighth  company  belonging  to  a  regiment  im- 
possible to  specify,  because  of  the  enfolding,  deepening 
dusk.  They  also  smelt  hot  and  dusty  and  tallowy.  A  sub- 
altern was  in  command  of  them,  and  an  under  officer. 
They  halted,  marked  time  while  they  posted  a  sentry  at 
each  of  the  gates,  then  tramped  on  toward  the  gardener's 
cottage,  and  turned  into  the  Tessier  stable  yard.  They 
were  going  to  bivouac  there.  It  was  all  clear  and  plain  and 
simple.  It  was  as  fascinating  as  a  shadow  play — but  for 
the  tragic  element  that  mingled  in.  Now  the  servants  and 
grooms  were  unloading  the  luggage  from  the  carriages  and 
marvelously  deft  and  noiseless  they  seemed  at  the  work.  A 
little  later — and  both  carriages  turned  from  the  house,  and 
were  driven  into  the  stable  yard.  You  could  hear  the 
grooms  and  the  big  coachman  hissing  as  they  unharnessed 
the  weary  horses,  and  the  horses  snorting  recognition  as 
they  scented  their  stable  mates.  And  then  P.  C.  Breagh 
became  aware  that  the  venerable  pair  of  ponies  that  drew 
Madame  Tessier 's  basket  carriage  were  not  to  be  permitted 
to  remain  in  their  comfortable  loose  boxes.  .  .  .  He  could 
hear  the  elderly  man  who  groomed  and  fed  and  exercised 
the  ponies  vainly  protesting  at  the  summary  eviction  of 
his  charges,  and  the  officer  who  commanded  the  detachment 
of  infantry — Green  Rifles,  as  it  turned  out — answering  his 
complaints : 

"Find  the  beasts  another  stable,  and  the  rent  and  forage 
will  be  paid  for.  But  remember! — if  you  grumble,  His 
Excellency  will  have  you  shot!" 

And  the  ponies  were  led  away  in  search  of  new  quarters, 
as  the  Foreign  Office  fourgon,  with  its  escort  of  Uhlans, 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  565 

ground  over  the  trampled  gravel  and  pulled  up  at  the 
terrace  steps.  One  could  hear  the  voice  of  Madame  Potier 
and  the  creaking  of  the  Venetian  shutters.  Then  the  bil- 
liard-room windows  threw  broad  stripes  of  light  across  the 
terrace  toward  the  wall.  They  were  going  to  carry  in  the 
dispatch  boxes  and  light  traveling  safes,  the  copying 
presses  and  letter  books  and  the  rest  of  the  Foreign 
Office  impedimenta  by  way  of  the  long  windows.  .  .  .  One 
guessed  whose  idea  that  had  been. 

A  dominating,  transforming  spirit  had  invaded  the  quiet 
house  in  the  Eue  de  Provence,  bringing  with  it  this  pur- 
poseful, orderly  bustle,  this  disciplined  irruption  of  ele- 
ments strange  and  new. 

Of  all  these  servants  and  attendants,  some  would  cer- 
tainly take  up  their  abode  at  the  gardener's  cottage.  Would 
P.  C.  Breagh,  like  the  Tessier  ponies,  be  presently  turned 
out  to  seek  cover  elsewhere  ? 

And  Juliette.  .  .  .  The  thought  of  her  roused  all  his 
stinging  apprehensions.  He  told  himself  that  presently, 
when  the  house  should  have  resumed  something  of  its  nor- 
mal quiet,  he  would  steal  across  the  lawn  in  the  shadow  of 
the  trees  and  borders,  and  lie  in  wait  for  a  glance  .  .  .  for 
a  word.  .  .  . 

He  would  force  her  to  leave  at  once  for  Belgium.  She 
must  not  remain  in  the  house  with  all  these  men.  .  .  .  The 
time  crept  by  with  maddening  slowness  as  he  waited.  Dark 
shadows  moved  in  lighted  rooms,  passing  across  the  blinded 
windows.  .  .  .  The  whole  house  was  flaring  with  gaslight 
now. 

How  long.  .  .  .  The  slatted  Venetian  shutters  of  the 
dining-room  were  now  unbarred  and  thrown  open.  He 
could  not  see  into  the  room  by  reason  that  it  faced  east 
toward  the  pleasance,  while  the  window  from  which  he 
watched  looked  southward,  immediately  commanding  the 
hall  door.  But  broad  beams  of  light  were  thrown  down  the 
steps  and  across  the  grass  plot.  Tall  shadows  moved  across 
the  streaks  at  intervals.  There  was  the  clatter  of  china, 
glass,  and  cutlery,  a  smell  of  cooking  delectably  savory. 
The  Man  of  Iron  was  dining,  and  Hate  had  spread  the 
board. 

A  shudder  went  through  Breagh,  and  a  cold  perspira- 
tion bathed  him.  His  hair  seemed  to  rise  and  stiffen  upon 
his  creeping  scalp.  A  sound  broke  from  him  .  .  .  perhaps 


566  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

a  groan,  perhaps  an  exclamation.    There  was  a  soft  step  in 
the  darkness  under  his  window  and  a  whisper  like  a  sigh. 

"Monsieur  Breagh.  .  .  .  Do  not  descend!  It  will  be  bet- 
ter that  I  mount  the  stairs  to  you!" 

His  first  impulse  was  to  reassume  the  discarded  coat  and 
waistcoat.  Then  he  remembered  that  it  was  dark.  The 
floor  creaked  under  his  stealthy  footsteps  as  he  reached  the 
landing  and  crept  on  stockinged  feet  down  the  narrow 
stairway.  She  had  pushed  back  the  unlatched  door  and 
passed  into  the  tiny  passage.  He  met  her  almost  on  the 
threshold,  felt  for  and  seized  her  little  hands.  How  fever- 
ishly hot  they  were !  He  pressed  them  as  he  whispered : 

"I  guessed  what  had  happened!  ...  I  know  who  has 
come  here !  .  .  .  For  hours  I  have  been  waiting  my  chance 
to  get  a  word  alone  with  you.  I  was  just  coming  when  I 
heard  you  under  the  window ! ' ' 

She  whispered — and,  although  her  hands  burned  in  his, 
they  trembled  and  her  teeth  chattered : 

' '  Monseigneur  de  Bismarck  desired  to  dine  here.  Every 
day  one  does  not  entertain  a  guest  so  noble.  See  you  well ! 
I  have  cooked  for  Monseigneur  with  my  own  hands  a  dinner 
worthy  of — himself!  He  has  devoured  like  an  ogre  the 
trout  a  la  sauce  Tartare,  and  the  cutlets,  and  is  now  en- 
gaged upon  a  ragout  of  partridges.  When  it  is  time  to  fry 
the  savory  omelette  that  follows,  Madame  Potier  will  ring 
the  little  bell,  and  I  shall  run  back  to  the  house." 

The  sentence  ended  in  a  stifled  titter.  An  ugly  sound 
that  sickened  Breagh  as  he  heard  it.  He  pressed  the  small 
hands,  whispering  entreatingly : 

"Don't  laugh!  You  must  not  laugh.  Go  back  and  get 
what  you  need  for  a  journey.  Tell  Madame  Potier  I  am 
taking  you  to  Belgium.  Back  to  your  husband !  .  .  .  your 
place  is  where  he  is!  You  shall  not  stay  here  .  .  .  you 
must  not,  I  forbid  you!  ..." 

She  ceased  to  laugh  and  pulled  her  hands  away  from  his. 
Her  answer  came :  an  inflexible  utterance  to  be  breathed  so 
softly : 

"I  remain  here,  Monsieur,  until  my  husband  comes!" 

He  panted  the  old  prayer : 

"Juliette,  for  the  love  of  God  .  .  .  !  You  don't  know 
what  terrible  danger  you  are  risking!  ..." 

The  reply  fanned  past  his  cheek  like  the  velvety  wing  of 
some  great  night  moth: 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  567 

' '  Monsieur,  I  remain  here,  until  the  arrival  of  M.  Charles 
Tessier.  Although  you  will  do  wisely  to  depart  while  you 
may — unseen ! ' ' 

He  said  between  his  gritted  teeth,  while  the  pounding 
of  his  heart  choked  him : 

' '  I  shall  stay  here !  .  .  .  I  decline  to  be  sent  away !  .  .  . " 

She  seemed  to  cogitate.  Then  came  the  mere  breath  of 
an  utterance. 

"Will  you  swear  to  be  secret  and  faithful?" 

He  said  hoarsely : 

"Juliette,  I  must  first  know  what  you  intend  to  do." 

She  whispered,  and  her  voice  set  his  blood  rushing  and 
the  fragrance  of  her  maddened  him. 

"Stoop!  .  .  .  Why  are  you  so  tall?  Bend  down  your 
head!" 

He  stooped  from  his  majestic  altitude  of  five  feet  nine 
inches  and  a  bittock,  and  two  little  hands  that  scorched 
him  clasped  his  neck  about.  Light  and  soft  as  the  touch 
of  a  flower  was  the  contact  of  the  mouth  that  whispered : 

' '  I  will  tell  you.  .  .  .  There  is  a  line  of  one  of  your  Eng- 
lish poets — I  forget  his  name — but  the  words  run  like 
this.  .  .  . 

"'Throw  but  a  stone — the  giant  dies!" 

He  gasped: 
"I  hear  you!" 

She  whispered,  still  with  her  mouth  against  his  cheek  : 
' '  See  you  well ! — for  the  deliverance  of  my  country,  it  is 
I  who  am  going  to  throw  that  stone ! ' ' 

He  panted  through  the  shuddering  that  had  seized  him : 
"Do  you  know  what  will  happen,  whether  you  succeed 
or   fail?     You  will  be  led  out — placed  with  your  back 
against — this  wall  perhaps — and  shot!" 

He  felt  her  lips  smile  against  his  cheek  as  she  answered : 

"And  what  of  that!     It  will  be  the  fortune  of  War! 

But  you  ..."    She  sharply  drew  her  face  away,  and  the 

slight  hands  thrust  him  from  her.    "I  will  have  you  leave 

this  place  to-night!" 

A  weakness  seized  him.  He  sank  down  upon  his  knees 
and  stretched  his  arms  out,  in  the  darkness,  to  the  dimly 
outlined  silhouette  of  the  slight  elfin  creature  standing  on 
the  threshold,  and  the  scents  of  rose  and  jasmine  came  to 
him  in  gusts  from  the  night-veiled  garden  with  another 


568  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

fragrance  that  had  no  name.    He  whispered,  driven  beyond 
himself : 

' '  I  will  not  go !    I  love  you ! ' ' 

She  said: 

' '  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  Love — who  have  consecrated 
myself  to  vengeance.  And  your  presence  here  might  ruin 
all.  .  .  .  He  knows  M.  Breagh,  the  Englishman.  .  .  .  Have 
you  not  told  me  over  and  over  that  once  he  .  .  . " 

She  broke  off  there.  But  the  intolerable  stab  brought 
Breagh  to  his  feet.  He  snarled  at  her  through  his  clenched' 
teeth. 

"He  may  know  Breagh,  the  Englishman,  but  he  doesn't 
know  Jean  Jacques  Potier.  Tell  Madame  that  I  shall  wear 
her  nephew's  clothes  and  take  his  name,  and  do  his  work 
about  the  house  and  garden.  All  his  duds  are  in  the  cup- 
board up  in  my  room  there,  and  his  apron  and  clogs  and 
so  forth.  ..." 

Appalling  triviality  of  the  sex  feminine.  The  conjured 
picture  evoked  a  titter.  She  breathed,  and  he  was  stung 
with  rage  to  know  her  shaken  with  irresistible  mirth : 

"But  you  do  not  know  how  to  sweep  and  clean,  and  how 
can  you  conceal  your  very  red  and  curly  hair?  French 
servant  men  have  not  such  hair !  You  will  be  betrayed  by 
it,  Monsieur!  ..." 

His  blood  boiled,  and  he  thundered  in  a  whisper : 

' '  I  shan  't !  .  .  .  Call  it  what  color  you  like  to-night.  It 
won't  be  there  to-morrow!  There  are  clippers  in  the  cup- 
board, and  I  shall  have  it  off." 

A  distant  bell  rang.  She  was  gone  like  a  bat  in  the  dark- 
ness. His  word  was  given.  He  was  pledged  now  to  follow 
her  wherever  fate  should  lead. 


LXVI 

VERSAILLES,  always  a  town  of  martial  music.  Royal  or  Im- 
perial fanfares  of  brass,  and  welcoming  salutes  of  deep- 
voiced  cannon,  had  been — since  a  day  early  in  October, 
when  the  girdle  of  iron  and  steel  had  closed  about  Paris — 
resonant  with  Prussian  bugle  calls  and  throbbing  with 
Prussian  drums. 

From  dusk  to  dawn  the  electric  search  ray  now  mounted 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  569 

on  the  summit  of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  as  the  broad  wheel- 
ing beams  from  Vanves,  Issy,  Mont  Valerien,  and  the  whole 
ring  of  forts  that  guarded  the  great,  magnificent,  menaced 
capital,  whitened  earth  and  sky  in  token  of  the  unsleeping 
vigilance  of  the  Parisians,  and  their  ceaseless  expectation 
of  a  German  night  attack,  even  as  the  long  indicatory  fin- 
gers of  brilliant  blue-white  light,  stretching  from  the  ridge 
of  St.  Cloud  and  from  the  heights  of  Clamart,  from  Marly, 
Vanesse,  Epinal,  Noiseau,  Choisy,  and  Bourget — no  less 
than  the  formidable  battery  of  big  guns  on  the  Place 
d'Armes,  with  their  muzzles  placed  so  as  to  sweep  the  ave- 
nues radiating  from  the  Chateau — betokened  the  invaders' 
anticipations  of  yet  another  sortie. 

Ah,  why  had  there  been  no  sortie  earlier  than  that 
abortive  effort  toward  Chevilly  on  the  thirtieth  of  Septem- 
ber? There  were,  at  the  beginning  of  the  Investment,  no 
more  than  180,000  German  troops  of  the  Crown  Prince's 
Army  encircling  Paris.  Up  to  the  tenth  of  October  what 
a  triumphant  turning  of  the  tables  might  have  been  ef- 
fected by  a  vigorous  sally,  effectively  carried  out ! 
,  Huge  German  forces  were  engaged  in  the  sieges  of  Metz 
and  Strasburg,  Belfort  and  Soissons,  Schelsstadt  and 
Verdun.  General  von  der  Tann  was  engaged  with  the 
Army  of  the  Loire  near  Artenay.  The  stubborn  resistance 
of  Orleans  kept  an  Army  Corps  of  the  Red  Prince  extreme- 
ly busy.  The  Grand  Duke  of  Mecklenburg,  with  the  right 
wing  of  the  Prussians'  covering  army  south  of  Paris,  was 
actively  engaged  with  the  French  at  Dreux  and  Le 
Mans. 

And  there  were  55,000  troops  of  the  Line  within  the 
walls  of  Paris ;  there  were  105,000  Mobiles — not  fighters  to 
be  sneezed  at.  There  were  30,000  National  Guards — per- 
haps too  soft  in  muscle  and  well-developed  in  the  region  of 
the  corporation  to  be  very  effective — pitted  against  such 
seasoned  warriors  as  Schmidt,  Klaus,  Kraus,  and  Klein. 
But  add  to  these,  25,000  Marines,  Douaniers,  Gardes-Cham- 
petres  and  Forestiers,  and  there  you  had  a  force  of  485,000 
trained  Frenchmen,  asking  nothing  better  than  to  sally  out 
by  St.  Denis,  Villejuif,  and  Charenton,  cut  the  line  of  in- 
vestment north,  clear  the  blocked  road  south,  effect  a  junc- 
tion with  the  Army  of  the  Loire,  destroy  the  Warlock's 
subtlest  combinations,  promptly  raise  the  Siege  of  Paris, 
and  deliver  France  from  the  invader. 


570  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

What  was  Trochu,  Military  Governor  of  Paris,  thinking 
about  ?  What  were  MM.  Ducrot  and  Vinoy  doing,  to  delay 
until  the  garrison  and  fortress  of  Strasburg  were  surren- 
dered, until  the  Capitulation  of  Metz  on  the  twenty-seventh 
of  October,  and  the  fall  of  Verdun  on  the  seventh  of  No- 
vember, had  released  the  main  Army  of  the  Ked  Prince  for 
the  strengthening  of  that  steel  and  iron  girdle  that  lay 
outside  the  defiant  ring  of  forts?  The  tentative  sally  of 
the  twenty-ninth  of  November  was  foredoomed  to  failure 
from  the  outset.  No  wonder  Trochu  and  his  plans  fur- 
nished hungry  Parisians  with  abundant  food  for  mockery, 
when  the  Specter  of  Famine  brooded  over  the  City  on  the 
Seine.  Narrow-eyed  and  tight-lipped,  cold,  sinister,  and 
mysterious,  the  man  was  a  mere  bag  of  wind,  when  all  was 
said  and  done. 

Meanwhile,  the  great  bronze  muzzle-loaders  of  the  Forts 
of  Mont  Valerien,  Issy,  Montrouge,  Vanves,  and  Charenton, 
St.  Denis  and  its  twin  sisters,  roared  at  intervals  through- 
out each  day,  raining  common  shell,  chain  shot,  solid  ball, 
and  shrapnel  into  the  lines  of  the  investing  host.  But  the 
trenching  and  battery-making  went  on  steadily;  the  high- 
walled  farmyards  and  gardens  of  country  houses  in  the 
environs  were  being  converted  into  emplacements  for  artil- 
lery of  the  largest  caliber.  Already  several  of  Krupp's 
stupendous  siege-howitzers,  with  muzzles  cocked  at  angles 
of  forty-five,  demonstrated  the  possibilities  of  the  bombard- 
ment for  which  the  German  Press  daily  shrieked. 

"Not  for  the  reduction  of  the  military  defenses,  but  to 
produce  by  the  exercise  of  sheer  terror,  bodily  suffering, 
and  destruction  of  private  property,  such  an  effect  upon 
the  unarmed  multitudes — subjected  to  a  hail  of  incendiary 
shells  within  their  encircling  ring  of  walls  and  fortresses — 
as  to  compel  the  chiefs  of  the  Government  and  garrison  to 
come  to  terms  at  command  of  the  popular  voice." 

Thus  the  leader-writers  of  the  Berliner  Zeitung  and  other 
journals — peaceful-looking,  stout  men,  with  full  beards  and 
short-sighted  eyes  behind  spectacles — wrote,  as  though  they; 
longed  to  dip  their  quills  in  newly  shed  French  blood. 

"It  is  sad,  very  sad, ' '  said  the  Warlock,  vexed  for  once, ' 
"that  the  siege  trains  conveyingmore  than  100,000  hundred- 
weights of  flmnn.mit.ioTi  cannot  be  brought  over  a  single  line 
of  rails  with  sufficient  quickness  to  gratify  these  excellent 
gentlemen.  .  .  .  Yet  for  the  present  we  can  do  no  more 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  571 

than  invest  the  place  and  wait  for  the  means  of  attacking  it. 
The  process  of  starving  out  is,  as  the  mighty  fortress  of 
Metz  has  shown,  a  very  slow  one.  But  as  the  loud  voices  of 
one  hundred  and  one  guns  have  already  proclaimed  to  our 
Berliners — the  empty  stomach  triumphs  over  the  most  ob- 
stinate resistance.  We  now  require  an  army  to  guard 
300,000  prisoners  of  War !  Since  the  Babylonian  Captivity 
the  world  has  not  heard  the  like!  And  yet  the  chamber 
prattlers  and  the  journalists  accuse  us  of  tardiness.  Al- 
ready from  several  anonymous  quarters  have  reproachful 
or  ridiculing  letters  reached  me.  One  even  contains  a 
villainous  comic  verse,  which  I  am  told  is  sung  in  the  music 
halls  in  Berlin." 

And  the  great  tactician  read,  with  the  expression  of  one 
who  savors  the  bouquet  of  sulphureted  hydrogen  or  asa- 
f  etida : 

"Outer  MoltTce,  gehst  so  stumm? 
Immer  um  das  Ding  herum: 
Bester  Moltke,  sei  nicht  dumm, 
Mach'  doch  endlioh:    Bumm,  bumm,  bumml" 

And  he  tore  up  the  rude  verses  in  indignation  and  threw 
them  into  the  waste-paper  basket  of  the  Prussian  Great 
Headquarters  at  the  Palais  de  Justice,  on  the  right  of  the 
Prefecture,  and  strode  downstairs,  too  much  out  of  tune 
to  hum. 

To  have  been  called  slow  and  stupid,  and  affectionately 
urged  to  hurry  up  and  make  an  end  of  things  with  bang, 
bang,  banging !  .  .  .  He  was  almost  glad  that  his  departed 
Mary  was  not  alive  to  know  of  the  humiliation  inflicted  by 
these  scurrilous  rhymesters  on  her  beloved  old  man. 

It  was  an  unfortunate  moment  chosen  by  a  new  junior 
assistant  aide-de-camp  upon  the  Chieftain's  personal  staff, 
for  tendering  a  request  for  leave  of  absence  until  the  fol- 
lowing day. 

"What,  what?  ...  You  have  barely  entered  upon  your 
new  and  important  duties,  the  wine  in  which  your  comrades 
of  the  Guard  pledged  you  is  still  bubbling  in  your  veins. 
i.  .  .  Is  it  another  congratulatory  banquet,  or  a  supper 
tete-a-tete?  .  .  .  Am  I  right?"  The  Warlock's  keen 
glance  glittered  between  his  lashless  eyelids  at  the  tall,  fair- 
headed  young  officer  standing  rigidly  before  him.  "Prut! 
that  reminds  me!  .  .  ."  he  added.  ^  "In  whose  company 


572  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

did  I  see  you  lunching  only  yesterday  at  one  of  the  little 
round  tables  in  the  ante-chamber  of  the  dining  salle  at  the 
Hotel  des  Reservoirs  ? ' ' 

Said  Valverden,  his  blue  eyes  meeting  the  sharp  gray 
glance  with  a  charming  candor: 

"Excellency,  the  lady  is  the  recently  married  wife  of  a 
'Roumanian  noble.  Her  name,  if  Your  Excellency  desires 
to  know  it,  is  Madame  de  Straz." 

Said  the  Field  Marshal  with  an  acute  look  and  a  dry 
intonation : 

' '  In  Berlin,  not  so  long  ago,  she  called  herself  something 
else!" 

Valverden  answered,  with  a  conscious  side  glance  at  the 
twist  of  silver  braid  that  marked  his  rank  of  Captain : 

"Her  first  husband  was  killed  in  action  with  his  regi- 
ment at  Gravelotte.  She  is  now  legally  married  to  M.  de 
Straz." 

Moltke  took  snuff  and  said  laconically: 

"She  has  not  taken  long  in  changing  her  state." 

Valverden  began,  rather  lamely: 

"Madame  had  virtually  been  separated  from  M.  de 
Bayard " 

Like  a  bayonet  thrust  came  the  retort : 

' '  Since  your  Cousin  Max  ran  away  with  her  from  Paris, 
fourteen  years  ago !  The  woman  is  an  adventuress,  whom 
you  will  be  wise  to  avoid." 

Valverden  answered,  with  his  disarming  look  of  frank- 
ness: 

"Your  Excellency,  I  was  applied  to  by  the  person  you 
mention  for  advice  in  a  matter  of  serious  urgency.  Ma- 
dame de  Straz  has  unhappily  lost  all  trace  of  the  where- 
abouts of  her  daughter,  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard.  .  .  .  She 
has  entreated  me  to  solicit  for  her  an  audience  with  Your 
Excellency,  in  the  hope  that  you  might  aid  her  to  recover 
the  young  girl." 

The  War  Eagle  croaked,  ruffling  his  feathers  with  indig- 
nation : 

"Does  the  woman  suppose  that  I  have  got  the  unfortu- 
nate young  creature  in  my  pocket?  Or  does  she  suspect 
you  of  knowing  where  she  is  to  be  found?" 

Valverden  said,  hastily  and  flushing: 

"Your  Excellency,  upon  my  honor,  I  have  never  seen 
the  girl!" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  573 

The  Warlock  tucked  away  his  snuff  box  and  pointed 
the  terrible  withered  finger  at  the  left  side  of  the  young 
man's  bosom,  where  hung  upon  a  broad  black,  white-bor- 
dered ribbon  a  cross  of  dark  metal,  edged  with  a  narrow 
line  of  silver,  and  bearing  a  crown  and  the  letter  "W." 
A  terrible  grating  voice  said,  and  with  all  his  cool  effron- 
tery Valverden  quailed  at  the  words  and  the  stern  look 
that  accompanied  them: 

"To  you,  young  man,  upon  whom  the  Second  Class  of 
the  Iron  Cross  has  been  conferred  by  the  hand  of  your 
Crown  Prince,  for  daring  and  gallantry  upon  the  war  field 
— no  more  I  say  than  this:  Do  nothing  to  disgrace  the 
wearer  of  that  decoration — which  should  be  sacred  in  your 
eyes.  ..."  He  added:  "The  leave  you  ask  is  granted. 
Until  twelve  noon  to-morrow,  Captain  von  Herding  will 
take  your  place." 

And  His  Excellency  the  Field  Marshal  returned  his 
aide-de-camp's  salute  and  wheeled  sharply,  and  had  taken  a 
couple  of  strides  across  the  vestibule,  when  he  halted  to 
ask: 

' '  This  girl  you  speak  of — how  came  she  lost  ?  .  .  . " 

Said  Valverden,  hesitating  slightly: 

"According  to  Madame  her  mother,  the  ladies  were  on  a 
visit  to  Rethel  during  the  time  when  the  Prince  Imperial 
of  the  French  was  staying  at  the  Prefecture.  They  had 
obtained  an  audience  of  the  Prince.  .  .  .  Madame  de  Straz 
was  prevented  by  illness  from  accompanying  her  daughter. 
.  .  .  The  young  lady — Mademoiselle  Juliette  de  Bayard — 
has  never  been  seen  since." 

The  lean  neck  and  spare  features  of  the  greatest  of 
strategists  became  suffused  with  indignant  scarlet.  He 
said: 

' '  The  mother  is  a  trollop  of  the  very  first  water.  She 
took  the  girl  to  the  Prefecture — why  did  she  contrive  an 
interview?  She  sends  her  up  alone — she  declares  that  she 
has  never  since  seen  her.  .  .  .  Pfuil  .  .  .  The  affair,  in  my 
nostrils,  fairly  stinks  of  vulgar  intrigue.  Have  no  more  to 
do  with  it — though  the  unlucky  girl  is  no  doubt  to  be 
pitied.  ...  I  will  speak  to  His  Excellency,  Count  Bis- 
marck, who  has  agents  in  Rethel." 

And  he  steamed  across  the  marble  vestibule  of  the  great 
hall  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  crossed  the  Place  des  Tribu- 
naux,  and  vanished  into  the  Prefecture,  over  whose  en- 


574.  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

trance  hung  the  Hohenzollern  banner  and  the  Prussian 
standard,  that  was  very  soon  to  show  a  stripe  of  red  beside 
the  black  and  white.  .  .  . 

For  the  hitherto  recalcitrant  States  of  Baden  and  Hesse 
had  joined  the  Bund.  The  King  of  Saxony  had  signed, — 
Wiirtemburg  would  sign  the  treaty  of  Federation  shortly. 
There  were  prospects  of  a  definite  settlement  with  the  King 
of  Bavaria.  The  ambition  of  the  Man  of  Iron  was  shortly 
to  be  realized.  .  .  .  Bismarck  was  to  rule  a  German  Em- 
peror ! 

You  might  have  seen  him,  upon  this  bland  November 
morning  that  had  succeeded  a  night  of  shrieking  northerly 
gusts  and  driving  pelts  of  sleety  rain,  walking  with  the 
Count  Hatzfeldt  in  the  garden  of  the  Tessier  mansion  in 
the  Rue  de  Provence.  The  house  immediately  opposite 
had  now  been  converted  into  a  guard  post.  Sentries  in  the 
uniforms  of  the  Green  Jaegers  were  on  duty  at  the  gates. 
Over  the  principal  entrance  hung  the  black  and  white 
Prussian  standard. 

The  sky  was  deep  blue,  with  argosies  of  white  clouds 
sailing  toward  the  northeast.  The  leaves  that  yet  remained 
upon  the  elms  and  poplars  shone  in  the  sunshine  like  newly 
minted  gold.  Those  that  the  gale  had  stripped  lay  in  wet 
drifts  upon  the  grass  and  gravel,  though  the  three  oak  trees 
on  the  pleasance  yet  retained  their  suits  of  crisping  russet 
brown. 

To  the  right,  at  the  rear  of  the  house,  a  young  man 
servant  was  sweeping  away  the  leaves  that  adhered  to  the 
narrow  terrace  of  steps  running  round  three  sides  of  the 
building.  The  swish  of  his  birch  broom  punctuated  the 
sentences  of  the  newspaper  article  being  read  by  Hatzfeldt 
to  his  Chief. 

It  was  the  continuation  of  the  article  in  the  Berliner 
Zeitung  that  had  roused  the  ire  of  the  "Warlock  a  little 
while  before. 

"Unanimously,"  it  concluded,  "and  in  the  interests  of 
Humanity,  we  demand  that  this  measure  be  taken  at  once. 
We  reprehend  in  the  sternest  terms,  not  only  those  military 
commanders  who  are  in  favor  of  procrastination.  We  cry 
in  the  ears  of  the  Chancellor-and-Minister-President,  Count 
Bismarck  himself,  who  is  credited  with  being  the  main  fac- 
tor in  this  policy  of  delay :  M enet  mene,  tekel  upharsint — 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  575 

'Thou  art  weighed  in  the  balance,  and  found  to  want!'  ' 

Said  the  Man  of  Iron  to  Hatzf  eldt : 

"Did  I  not  know  that  my  wife  regards  women  who 
enter  the  lists  of  journalism  as  unsexed,  and  outcasts 
beyond  the  hope  of  redemption,  I  should  be  inclined  to 
believe  she  had  written  this."  He  added:  "I  have  often 
been  accused  of  inhumanity,  but  to  be  reproached  for  an 
excess  of  tenderness  is  something  quite  new  to  me.  How 
shall  we  reassure  these  excitable  gentlemen?  Buschlein" — 
he  referred  to  his  Press  article- writer,  the  rotund  author  of 
the  famous  "Recollections" — "Buschlein  shall  write  that 
he  has  authority  from  Count  Bismarck  to  state  that  his 
universally  credited  predilections  for  slaughter  have  not 
been  blunted  by  recent  experiences,  and  that  he  much  ap- 
proves of  the  bombardment  idea,  but  that  he  has  no  control 
over  those  high  military  functionaries  who  command  His 
Majesty's  investing  forces,  and  is  not  accustomed  to  be 
consulted  by  them. ' ' 

He  spat  and  resumed : 

"Private  correspondents  worry  me  to  know  whether  I 
am.  really  averse  to  the  bombardment,  and  why  I  won't 
allow  firing  into  the  town?  What  pernicious  rubbish! 
They  will  be  blaming  me  next  for  all  losses  during  the  in- 
vestment. Which  are  not  small;  for  in  little  skirmishes, 
and  during  the  short  time  occupied  by  those  abortive 
sorties,  we  have  lost  more  troops  than  we  should  have  done 
had  we  regularly  stormed  the  place." 

He  added,  looking  humorously  at  Hatzfeldt,  whose  hand- 
some, debonnaire  countenance  invariably  fell  at  any  refer- 
ence to  a  bombardment : 

"By  the  way,  another  balloon  has  been  taken  with  let- 
ters from  Paris,  some  of  which  I  have  already  read,  and  a 
Figaro  of  yesterday's  date.  It  has  been  decreed  by  the 
French  Government  that  all  wine  and  provisions  are  to  be 
taken  away  from  private  people,  as  the  poorer  classes 
have  already  begun  to  fricassee  their  dogs  and  pussy  cats. 
So  your  American  father-in-law  will  have  to  look  out  for 
his  cellar — an  excellently  stocked  one,  as  I  have  heard  from 
you.  And  your  wife 's  famous  mouse-gray  ponies  will  prob- 
ably be  made  into  cutlets — a  pretty  piece  of  intelligence  for 
your  next  letter  to  Madame ! ' ' 

"Ah!  .  .  .  for  Heaven's  sake,  Your  Excellency!"  cried 
Hatzfeldt,  with  ruefully  elevated  eyebrows,  "I  implore 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

[you  not  to  conjure  up  the  image  of  my  wife's  indignation 
jand  despair.  Every  letter  I  receive  from  her  begins  and 
ends  with  her  precious  ponies." 

The  Minister  appended: 

"Her  mother,  father,  and  her  brother,  Henry,  who  is 
living  at  their  estate  of  Petit  Val,  near  Marly — I  think  you 
told  me — being  sandwiched  in  between  the  little  beasts." 

They  were  pacing  the  garden  paths.  The  Chancellor  had 
recently  risen,  and  seemed  inclined  to  be  in  a  jesting  mood. 
He  continued,  throwing  away  the  butt  of  a  finished  cigar : 
i  "I  must  be  careful,  or  the  Countess  will  send  me  no 
more  pate  of  pheasants,  or  sausages.  Pray  tell  her,  with 
my  compliments,  that  both  were  excellently  fresh  and  good. 
.  .  .  Did  you  notice  written  on  my  table  card  that  the 
Mayor  of  Versailles  is  to  have  a  ten-minute  interview  before 
M.  Thiers  arrives  at  half -past  twelve?  If  I  have  not  pol- 
ished off  the  Republican  official  before  Thiers  toddles  up 
the  doorsteps  with  his  portfolio  under  his  short  arm,  and 
his  gold  spectacles  twinkling,  engage  him  in  conversation 
below  here  for  an  instant — do  not  send  him  up  straight- 
way to  the  torture  cell."  Thus  the  Minister  had  chris- 
tened the  small  room  adjoining  his  private  apartment.  He 
went  on :  "  I  do  not  want  him  to  go  down  to  Sevres  with  his 
white  flag  and  his  escort,  and  meet  Jules  Favre  with  a 
string  of  tales  about  our  orgies  and  revelings,  of  the  enor- 
mous expense  of  which  the  Mayor  is  coming  to  complain. ' ' 

' '  What  insolence ! ' '  commented  Hatzf eldt. 

"It  seems,"  continued  the  Minister,  "that  we  all  cost 
the  town  too  much  to  keep,  the  chief  offenders  being  the 
grand  ducal  and  princely  personages  at  the  Hotel  des 
Reservoirs.  Of  course,  one  knows  that  the  Tinsel  Rabble 
eat  and  drink  a  great  deal  more  than  they  require,  and 
waste  much  more  than  they  consume.  But  to  a  Frenchman, 
one  cannot  admit  as  much.  So  I  shall  tell  the  Mayor  that 
he  must  apply  to  the  French  Government  at  Tours  for 
permission  to  raise  a  substantial  money  loan,  and  as  M. 
Thiers  has  only  just  come  from  there,  he  would  naturally 
buttonhole  the  old  gentleman  if  he  encountered  him. 
Which — as  our  plump,  neatly  shaved  old  Professor  is  as 
timid  as  a  hare  and  as  soft  as  a  baby — would  discompose 
him  very  horribly.  ..."  He  continued:  "He  is  dying  to 
make  peace  with  us,  because  there  will  soon  be  famine  in 
Paris.  Imagine  how  I  caught  him  out  when  I  told  him  yes- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  577 

terday:  'Monsieur,  you  have  only  visited  the  city  for  a  few 
hours.  We  know  better  about  the  contents  of  its  magazines 
than  you  do.  They  have  ample  provisions  to  last  until  the 
end  of  January.  .  .  . '  "What  a  look  of  incredulity !  I  had 
only  been  feeling  his  pulse,  as  it  were.  .  .  .  His  amazement 
told  me  what  I  most  wanted  to  know.  What  a  man  to 
make  a  bargain  about  an  armistice,  an  invalidy  civilian, 
who  cannot  conceal  his  feelings !  Who  lets  himself  be  put 
out  of  countenance  and  pumped! — actually  pumped!" 

He  turned  aside  to  cough  and  hawk  and  expectorate 
copiously.  .  .  .  "There!"  he  said,  wiping  his  mustache 
vigorously  with  a  large  white  cambric  handkerchief.  ' '  You 
see  what  it  is  to  have  a  stomach  as  sensitive  as  mine  is.  ... 
That  injustice  done  me  in  the  Berliner  Zeitung  with  refer- 
ence to  the  bombardment  has  caused  an  overflow  of  bile, 
by  which  I  was  already  incommoded.  Thiers  will  be  cer- 
tain to  remain  closeted  with  me  for  two  hours.  He  is  noth- 
ing if  not  expansive  and  flowery,  and  redundant.  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  get  on  horseback  before  three  o'clock,  and  we 
dine  at  six."  He  went  on,  punctuating  the  sentence  with 
more  coughs  and  hawkings:  "And  as  our  table  is  to  be 
graced — tchah! — by  a  huge  trout  pasty,  a  love  gift  to  the 
Chancellor  of  the — hah! — Confederation,  from  a  Berlin 
restaurant  keeper  who  throws  into  the  bargain — ahah! — a 
cask  of  Vienna  March  beer  and  his  photograph,  taken  with 
his  wife  and — brr'r!" 

He  turned  aside  and  spat  vigorously,  before  ending,  re- 
suming, as  he  used  the  big  white  handkerchief : 

' '  One  would  desire  to  do  justice  to  a  gift  so  welcome.  .  .  . 
More  bile!  ...  I  spat  like  this  half  the  night  through. 
.  .  .  Decidedly  I  am  not  as  well  as  when  we  galloped  along 
the  highroads  with  the  Great  Headquarters  Staff.  ...  I 
have  wondered :  Do  I  eat  too  much  ?  Does  this  sedentary 
life  conduce  to  indigestion  ? ' '  He  spat  again,  and  answered 
himself :  ' '  How  can  it  be  so,  when  I  breakfast  on  a  couple 
of  eggs  with  dry  toast,  and  a  cup  of  tea  without  milk?  I 
don't  lunch — lunch  is  a  mockery  of  a  meal — but  in  the 
evening  I  make  a  hearty  dinner.  With  beer  and  champagne 
in  plenty,  and  wash  all  down  with  half  a  dozen  cups  of 
tea.  Then  I  go  to  bed — as  you  know,  never  before  mid- 
night. There's  a  doze — and  I  waken  up  with  my  brain  as 
bright  as  daylight — all  sorts  of  things  running  through  it, 
and  my  mouth  full  of  this  bitter — faugh!" 


578  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Your  Excellency  will  need  a  fresh  handkerchief,"  said 
Hatzfeldt,  slightly  shuddering,  as  the  Chancellor  vigorously 
crumpled  the  soiled  cambric  into  a  ball.  "Shall  I  send 
Your  Excellency's  servant  to  fetch  another?" 

"No,  no!  As  it  happens,  I  have  sent  Grams  out.  And 
Engelberg  is  busy.  There  is  Madame  Charles 's  factotum ! ' ' 
He  called  in  French:  "Hola,  Jean  Jacques!  Approach, 
my  brave  young  man ! ' ' 

His  full  blue  eyes,  their  whites  now  red-veined  and 
biliously  injected,  had  turned  to  where  the  strongly  built 
young  male  servant  was  still  sweeping  the  steps  of  the  rear 
of  the  house.  Cropped  to  the  scalp,  you  saw  the  fellow 
attired  in  a  well-worn  morning  jacket  of  striped  linen,  a 
blue  waistcoat  and  tight  blue  cloth  trousers,  yellow  piped 
at  the  side  seams.  Summoned  by  an  imperative  word  and 
gesture,  he  knocked  the  damp  leaves  off  his  broom,  stood 
it  up  against  the  side  of  the  conservatory,  and  shambled 
to  where  the  Chancellor  was  standing,  muttering  with  a 
downcast  air  and  a  furtive,  sulky  look : 

"Quiche,  Monseigneur  f  .  .  .  What  is  it  Monseigneur 
desires  ? ' ' 

Said  the  Minister,  with  a  smile  that  curved  the  great 
mustache  and  showed  the  white,  square  teeth  that  a  young 
man  might  have  envied : 

"Monseigneur  desires  that  without  delay  the  brave  Jean 
Jacques  would  betake  him  to  the  kitchen,  and  desire  Ma- 
dame Charles  Tessier  of  her  goodness  to  favor  Monseigneur 
with  a  clean  handkerchief.  .  .  .  Perhaps  two  would  be 
better.  .  .  .  Ask  for  two,  Jean  Jacques,  and  compel  thy 
legs  to  rapid  motion,  for  to  croquer  le  marmot  is  not  a  fa- 
vorite pastime  with  Monseigneur !  Comprehend  you  ? ' ' 

Jean  Jacques  replied  in  his  extraordinary  patois,  with  a 
bow  of  the  clumsiest: 

"Quiche,  Monseigneur  I" 

"De  quel  pays  sont  vousf"  asked  Hatzfeldt  curiously. 

Jean  Jacques  responded  with  sulky  unwillingness: 

"La  Suisse,  Monsieur!" 

Hatzfeldt  said,  as  the  young  man  returned  to  the  scene 
of  his  abandoned  labors,  picked  up  his  broom,  and  went 
round  the  end  of  the  conservatory  toward  the  kitchen 
quarters : 

"There  are  Frenchmen  who  call  themselves  Belgians  or 
Swiss  because  they  are  too  funky  to  fight!" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  579 

Said  the  Minister : 

"Madame  Charles  Tessier,  who  knows  all  about  this 
fellow,  describes  him  as  a  native  of  Neufchatel.  Here  she 
comes  herself,  bringing  my  handkerchiefs.  Thank  you  a 
thousand  times,  Madame!  But  why  inconvenience  your- 
self?" 

Madame  Charles,  whose  black  hair,  heavily  streaked  with 
white,  was  crowned  with  a  dreadful  lace  cap  with  lappets, 
parted  in  the  middle,  and  brushed  down  in  two  old-fash- 
ioned festoons  on  either  side  of  her  haggard  white  wedge 
of  a  face,  shrilled  in  her  raucous  voice  that  it  was  no 
trouble  whatever.  .  .  .  The  laundress's  basket  with  Mon- 
seigneur  's  clean  linen  had  but  that  moment  come  in. 

Madame  Charles  wore  a  gray  poplin  gown  of  rich,  stiff, 
antique  material,  trimmed  with  black  gimp  upon  the  gores, 
round  the  bottom  of  the  expansive  skirt,  and  upon  the 
sleeves  and  waist.  It  had  been  discovered  in  a  wardrobe 
belonging  to  the  mother  of  M.  Charles  Tessier.  She  had 
on  one  of  Madame 's  black  silk  aprons,  a  pair  of  her  black 
silk  mittens,  and  the  black  chenille  net  adorned  with  steel 
beads  that  confined  her  back  hair  had  housed  the  iron  gray 
curls  of  her  respected  mother-in-law.  Over  her  narrow 
shoulders  hung  the  inevitable  white  woolen  shawl. 

She  curtsied  deeply  to  the  Chancellor  and  slightly  to 
Count  Hatzfeldt,  and  went  on  into  the  garden,  and  disap- 
peared round  the  corner  of  the  ivy-bordered  path.  Seen 
thus  in  the  searching  daylight,  the  elevation  and  forward 
thrust  of  the  left  shoulder  that  lent  her  gait  its  unpleasant 
peculiarity,  and  the  curvature  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
spine  were  even  more  painfully  apparent.  It  occurred  to 
her  as  she  moved  away  from  the  two  men,  whose  eyes,  re- 
luctantly or  curiously,  were  following  her,  that  to  ape  this 
deformity  so  persistently  might  be  to  bring  it  in  reality 
upon  herself. 

She  shivered  a  little,  despite  the  bland  warmth  of  the 
November  sunshine.  Bound  the  corner  of  the  green  glass 
conservatory,  well  out  of  sight  of  those  who  walked  in  the 
garden,  Jean  Jacques  Potier  was  shivering,  too. 

When  the  Chancellor  had  coughed  and  spat  and  spat 
again,  the  knees  of  Jean  Jacques  had  shaken  beneath  him. 
His  heart  had  sunk  like  a  leaden  plummet,  and  the  sweat  of 
terror  had  started  on  his  skin. 

He  was  afraid — horribly  afraid.     Not  for  himself,  bnt 


580  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

for  another.    There  was  no  knowing.    The  thing  he  feared 
might  happen  at  any  time. 

"Throw  but  a  stone — the  giant  dies!  ..." 

He  could  hear  now  the  very  voice  in  which  she  had 
added:  "See  you  well,  it  is  I  who  am  going  to  throw  that 
stone!" 

He  had  expended  all  the  eloquence  he  possessed  with  the 
object  of  turning  Juliette  from  her  purpose.  He  did  not 
know  whether  he  had  succeeded.  She  would  give  him  no 
promise.  She  was  sphinxlike,  inscrutable.  .  .  .  You 
could  never  feel  sure  that  in  the  middle  of  the  night  there 
would  not  be  a  cry — and  then  a  commotion  of  running  feet 
upon  the  stairs,  and  then — the  arrest,  and  the  accusation. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  say,  when  that  happened: 
"It  was  my  doing.  She  knew  nothing  about  it.  It  was  I 
who  put  poison  in  the  food  of  this  man!" 

Then  he  would  be  taken  out  and  shot.  It  would  be  done 
instantly,  whether  the  owner  of  the  life  that  had  been 
attempted  died  or  got  well.  Perhaps  the  man  would  not 
die  ?  He  had  an  iron  constitution  and  the  frame  of  a  Titan. 
But  sometimes  he  looked  weary  and  haggard  and  bilious. 
And  when  he  spat  as  just  now,  and  pulled  wry  mouths 
over  the  bitter  stuff  he  expectorated,  the  heart  of  P.  C. 
Breagh  would  sink  to  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  and  his  legs 
would  shake  under  him,  as  they  were  shaking  now. 


LXYII 

MEANWHILE,  the  Man  of  Iron  had  commented  to  Hatzf eldt : 
"Our  landlady  is  going  for  a  little  promenade  .  .  .  she 
does  not  fear  damp,  that  is  quite  plain  .  .  .  see  how  she 
trails  her  skirts  over  the  wet  grass.  Now,  if  she  were  to 
show  her  feet,  should  we  be  grateful,  or  the  reverse  ? ' ' 

A  light  of  cynical  amusement  flickered  in  his  blue  eyes 
as  he  noted  Hatzf  eldt 's  disgust  of  the  creature  of  whom  he 
spoke.  He  went  on: 

"Ugly  women  have  sometimes  pretty  feet,  and  hands 
that  are  exquisite.  Have  you  ever  looked  closely  at  the 
hands  of  Madame  Charles?  If  not,  I  recommend  them  to 
your  notice.  They  are  well  worth  looking  at. "  He  added, 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  581 

ignoring  the  shudder  that  convulsed  the  dandy:  "I  pro- 
pose that  we  follow  her — discreetly  and  at  a  distance.  I 
have  still  a  few  minutes  before  the  Mayor  arrives. ' ' 

He  led  the  way.  They  crossed  a  portion  of  the  lawn  and 
turned  into  a  gravel  walk,  damp  and  miry  and  drifted  over 
with  wet  and  rotting  leaves.  The  shining  patent-leather 
boots  of  Hatzfeldt  suffered  by  their  contact.  The  Chan- 
cellor, observing  this,  said: 

"Never  mind.  .  .  .  You  can  have  them  cleaned!  My 
man  Niederstedt  polishes  boots  capitally!" 

Hatzfeldt  returned  plaintively : 

"I  can  have  them  cleaned,  as  Your  Excellency  observes. 
But  never  again  will  they  be  the  same  after  a  wetting. 
And  they  are  made  by  the  only  man  in  the  world  who 
knows  how  to  make  boots. ' ' 

The  Minister  said  brutally: 

' '  Order  another  pair  of  the  fellow ! ' ' 

Hatzfeldt  returned  with  a  shrug  and  ?,  rueful  look : 

"He  lives  in  Paris — Rue  de  Lafayette.  And  Your  Ex- 
cellency is  going  to  have  Paris  bombarded ! ' ' 

Said  Bismarck,  his  great  frame  shaken  by  internal 
laughter : 

"The  fellows  who  write  the  newspaper  articles  out  of 
their  own  heads  know  a  great  deal  better  than  that.  .  .  . 
According  to  them,  I  am  a  humanitarian — altruistic  to  im- 
becility." 

"But  we,  who  only  write  to  Your  Excellency's  dictation, 
know  Your  Excellency  better  than  they ! ' ' 

The  injury  to  his  immaculate  foot  coverings,  and  the  im- 
pending destruction  of  his  bootmaker's  establishment,  in- 
censed Hatzfeldt  to  the  point  of  an  imprudent  retort. 

The  granite  face  turned.  The  heavy  regard  rested  upon 
him.  With  his  characteristic  stutter — a  signal  as  warning 
to  those  who  knew  him  as  the  rattle  of  the  crotalus  hidden 
in  the  brake,  the  Minister  said: 

"So  I  am  not  a  philanthropist,  or  a — or  an  apostle  of 
light  and  sweetness.  I  would  prefer  to  build  an  Empire 
with  the  fallen  towers  of  the  modern  Babylon?  ..." 

Hatzfeldt  bowed  with  the  grace  inherited  from  the  Rus- 
sian Princess,  his  mother.  The  Minister  went  on  in  a 
lighter  tone : 

"As  a  boy,  I  always  preferred  the  apples  that  hung  on 
the  highest  branches.  They  were  bigger  and  sweeter  and 


582  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

rosier  than  the  others,  though  in  stealing  them  I  risked 
both  my  breeches  and  my  neck.  Well !  To  be  plain,  there 
are  two  apples  just  now  that  I  particularly  covet:  the 
Bombardment — and  the  Proclamation  of  the  Emperor  of 
Germany  from  the  Tuileries.  ..."  He  added:  ''The  via 
media  is  not  the  surest  road  to  an  arrangement  that  shall 
be  lasting.  The  most  convincing  arguments  are  uttered  by 
the  iron  mouths  of  big  guns ! " 

They  had  emerged  from  the  shrubbery  at  the  bottom  of 
the  garden.  The  patch  of  green  still  spread  upon  the 
eastern  boundary  wall,  where  the  water  trickled  down. 
The  aquatic  plants  had  been  weeded,  and  the  tiny  pond 
cleaned  out  by  Breagh  under  the  supervision  of  his  In- 
fanta, but  the  pipe  remained  unsoldered  because  the 
plumber's  men  had  gone  to  the  War.  Thus  the  Satyr's 
mouth  remained  dry,  though  the  chuckle  still  sounded  in 
the  Satyr's  throat. 

Madame  Charles  had  been  standing  near  the  mask  as  the 
Minister  and  his  courtly  First  Secretary  stepped  into  the 
open.  She  started  slightly,  glanced  round,  bent  her  head, 
and  limped  painfully  away. 

Said  the  Chancellor,  barely  glancing  after  the  awkward, 
misshapen  figure : 

"I  hope  that  it  has  not  occurred  to  Madame  Charles  to 
look  over  the  garden  wall!" 

Hatzfeldt's  eyebrows  went  up  in  mild  surprise.  He 
objected : 

"It  would  hardly  be  possible.  The  wall  must  be  eight 
feet  high,  and  how  in  the  world  could  a  woman,  elderly  and 
with  that  distressing  deformity " 

The  laugh  that  shook  the  great  figure  beside  him  puz- 
zled as  much  as  the  utterance. 

"She  is  a  daughter  of  Eve — and  it  would  be  possible,  by 
putting  a  toe  in  the  jaws  of  yonder  grinning  gentleman, 
to  ascertain  that  I  have  had  two  sentries  posted  on  the 
other  side  of  this  wall.  Listen!  ..." 

He  rapped  on  the  masonry  with  the  walking  stick  he 
habitually  carried,  and  an  answering  rap  came  from  the 
other  side. 

"There  is  a  good  large  garden  there,  belonging  to  an 
unoccupied  house,"  he  added.  "And  ranged  along  the 
wall  are  bushes,  behind  which  my  two  men  stand  well 
screened." 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  583 

"Did  Your  Excellency  apprehend  danger  from  that 
quarter?"  inquired  Hatzfeldt. 

"Hardly,"  said  he,  "though  it  is  as  well  to  be  on  the 
safe  side,  and  Versailles  is  pretty  well  packed  with  people 
by  whom  I  am  rather  particularly  detested.  But  as  a  fact, 
I  placed  the  soldiers  for  the  purpose  of  catching  Madame 's 
postman.  You  did  not  perceive  as  we  stepped  out  of  the 
shrubbery  that  she  slipped  an  envelope  into  this  creature's 
mouth?" 

Hatzfeldt  answered,  in  some  astonishment : 

"Why,  no,  Your  Excellency.  I  saw  nothing  of  the 
kind!" 

The  Minister  said,  shaken  with  the  internal,  secret 
laughter : 

"And  yet  you  have  good  eyes,  better  than  mine  for 
seeing  some  things  at  a  distance.  ...  A  pretty  face  behind 
a  thick  veil  ...  a  graceful  figure  concealed  by  a  shawl. 
Possibly  the  friend  who  communicates  with  Madame 
Charles  with  the  aid  of  this  grinning  fellow  admires  her. 
.  .  .  There  is  no  accounting  for  tastes.  ..." 

Hatzfeldt  asked  in  a  tone  of  disgust : 

"Who  is  Madame  Charles's  friend?  Is  it  possible  that 
misshapen  creature  has  a  lover?" 

The  Minister  answered  with  a  curious  grimace: 

"A  lover  who  is  apparently  a  Franc-tireur." 

Hatzfeldt  returned  with  acrimony: 

"One  of  those  marauding  free  shooters  who  wear  a 
black  cloth  uniform,  and  carry  a  black  standard  with  a 
skull  above  a  pair  of  crossbones.  Perhaps  his  lady-love 
sat  for  the  picture  of  the  Death's  head?" 

The  Minister  returned,  with  a  look  of  amusement: 

"Possibly  she  did.  .  .  .  Though  there  have  been  mo- 
ments when,  under  Madame 's  extraordinary  coiffure  with 
the  black  lace  lappets,  I  have  seen  peeping  at  me — imagine 
what?" 

"I  cannot  imagine.  .  .  .  Hatred,  possibly?"  said  Hatz- 
feldt. 

"Hatred,  blazing  from  two  extraordinarily  blue 
eyes.  ..."  The  Minister  went  on :  "  But  not  only  hatred. 
.  .  .  Youth,  and  prettiness.  Now,  look  here,  and — for  I 
am  perfectly  convinced  that  you  believe  me  bewitched  by 
our  landlady — behold  my  rival's  ~billei-douxl  ..." 

Hatzfeldt  could  scarcely  speak  for  laughter.    The  Min- 


584  THE    MAN    OF,   IRON 

ister  put  his  hand  into  the  Satyr's  mouth  and  extracted 
therefrom  a  little  envelope,  inscribed  in  a  bold,  black,  inky 
scrawl. 

"To  My  Adored  Wife." 

The  Satyr  chuckled  almost  humanly  as  the  Minister  held 
the  superscription  under  his  Secretary's  eyes,  and  calmly 
proceeded  to  open  the  envelope.  .  .  .  Hatzfeldt,  at  first 
crimson,  and  writhing  with  repressed  merriment,  became 
graver  as  the  Minister  read  aloud: 

"  What  of  thy  husband?  dost  thou  ask  in  the  nights  that 
are  sleepless  and  solitary.  Credit,  my  little  one,  that  thy 
Charles  is  often  near.  In  the  thought  of  thy  husband,  if 
not  in  person,  he  rests  upon  thy  heart  so  faithful  and 
fond." 

Hatzfeldt  spluttered.    The  reader  continued: 

"We  Francs-tireurs  attacked  a  squadron  of  Schleswig 
Hussars  the  other  day  at  the  village  of  Hably.  .  .  .  We  shot 
down  many  of  the  Prussian  marauders  and  killed  their 
horses.  Only  eleven  escaped  with  life.  They  returned  later 
and  "burned  the  village,  committing  unexampled  brutali- 
ties, and  murdered  several  of  the  inhabitants.  It  is  well! 
We  have  another  cause  to  feed  our  roaring  furnace  of  hate. 

"All  means  of  revenge  are  good,  for  ours  is  a  holy  war 
waged  upon  a  merciless  invader.  We  number  nobles,  peas- 
ants, citizens,  criminals  in  our  armed  and  organized  ranks. 
Each  man  will  kill  as  he  knows  best.  The  rifle,  the  knife, 
the  scythe,  or  the  cudgel,  the  gardener's  shears,  the  chem- 
ist's drugs,  and  the  barber's  razor  are  weapons  lawful  to 
be  used  against  the  enemies  of  France.  We  will  dig  wolf- 
traps  for  these  Prussian  foes  of  ours,  who  plunder  by 
method  and  wreck  scientifically.  We  will  tumble  them 
down  wells,  drown  them  in  rivers,  burn  the  huts  they  are 
sleeping  in  over  their  heads.  And  our  sisters  f — our  wives f 
They  are  united  with  us  in  our  solemn  compact  of  destruc- 
tion. They  will  embrace  to  strangle.  They  will  smile  and 
stab!  They  will  cook  savory  dishes  for  Messieurs  les 
Prussiens,  and  the  dogs  will  eat  of  them  and  die. 

"These  kisses  on  thy  sweetest  eyelids.  These  for  thy 
two  little  hands.  Dost  thou  love  me  f  Till  death  and  after, 

"Thine  and  thine  only, 

"Charles  Tessier." 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  585 

There  was  a  silence.  The  Minister  broke  it  with  a  grim 
sentence : 

"When  this  fine  fellow  is  not  murdering  Prussians,  he 
is  making  love  to  his  spitfire  of  a  wife.  A  fine  breed  of 
young  criminals  should  spring  from  such  a  union ! ' ' 

The  Satyr's  mocking  chuckle  sounded  like  a  comment 
on  the  speech.  The  Minister  had  deftly  opened  the  en- 
velope without  tearing  the  flap,  which  was  still  moist.  He 
now  refolded  and  slipped  back  the  sheet  into  the  envelope, 
wet  his  finger  in  the  little  jet  that  gurgled  from  the  hole 
in  the  pipe  behind  the  mask  of  the  Satyr,  and  reclosed  the 
envelope.  He  drew  out  his  watch  and  consulted  it,  as  the 
clocks  of  Versailles  struck  the  half  hour,  and  said  to  Hatz- 
f eldt,  replacing  the  watch : 

' '  Half -past  twelve.  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  I  read  something 
by  Felix  Pyat  very  like  this" — he  slightly  waved  the  dry- 
ing envelope — "in  a  copy  of  the  Petit  Journal  that  was 
brought  me  the  other  day.  .  .  .  Now,  my  Mayor  is  due,  and 
M.  Thiers  is  certain  to  arrive  on  his  heels.  ...  I  must 
return  to  the  house;  but  I  should  prefer  that  you  stayed 
here." 

"Here,  Excellency!" 

The  Minister  laughed  in  the  amazed  face  of  the  Secre- 
tary. 

"I  want  you,"  he  said,  "to  play  the  part  of  Leporello. 
.  .  .  Frankly,  I  cannot  understand  why  Madame  Charles 
herself  placed  this  letter  in  the  gape  of  the  mask.  ...  I 
am  curious  to  know  who  will  fetch  it  away  from  there. 
...  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  hide  in  the  shrubbery  and 
find  out." 

Hatzfeldt  glanced  dubiously  at  the  wall.  The  Minister 
nodded. 

"My  two  men  are  not  sufficiently  sharp-eyed  to  see 
through  these  bricks.  Really,  I  must  ask  you  to  stay  here 
and  oblige  me.  Von  Keudell  must  keep  M.  Thiers  in  play 
instead  of  you.  .  .  .  Why,  you  are  quite  pale!  ..." 

Hatzfeldt  gulped  and  admitted : 

"That  letter  gave  me  an  unpleasant  sensation.  I  am 
regularly  shaved  by  a  Frenchman,  you  understand!  .  .  . 
And  these  Francs-tireurs  seem  to  be  everywhere.  Really, 
it  is  horrible ! ' ' 

The   Minister's   brow   became   thunderous.      The   lines 


586  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

about  his  mouth  hardened  to  granite.  He  said  in  his  grim- 
mest tone : 

"They  should  be  hanged  whenever  found !  And  not  cut 
down,  but  left  hanging,  for  a  salutary  warning  to  other 
rascals.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  that  the  Combat — the  organ 
edited  by  that  blackguard  Felix  Pyat — wishes  to  get  up  a 
subscription  for  the  purchase  of  a  gold-mounted  rifle  to  be 
given  to  the  scoundrel  who  'succeeds  in  removing  the 
Prussian  King.'  .  .  .  Doubtless  they  have  set  their  price 
upon  the  heads  of  Moltke,  and  the  arch  enemy  Bismarck. 
Well — Auf  Wiedersehen!  Ride  out  with  me  after  lunch  to 
the  aqueduct  of  Marly,  and  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know. ' ' 

And  the  great  figure  strode  away,  leaving  the  First  Sec- 
retary to  his  unwelcome  task. 

"After  lunch  .  .  ."he  said  mentally,  as  he  insinuated 
his  graceful  figure  between  a  lilac  and  a  lauristinus,  and 
the  rich  soil,  rendered  marshy  by  the  overflow  of  the  lily 
pool,  squashily  gave  way  beneath  his  once  immaculate 
boots.  "Why,  good  Heaven!  .  .  .  the  woman  to  whom 
that  monstrous  epistle  was  addressed  actually  assists  the 
Foreign  Office  chef  with  the  cooking!  The  Chief  swears 
by  her  ragouts  and  her  omelettes  and  her  beignets.  They 
are  certainly  excellent.  ...  I  must  avoid  them  for  the 
future.  A  young  married  man  with  a  family  must  be  care- 
ful. I  wonder,  if  anything  unpleasant  happened,  whether 
Touti  would  marry  again?" 

The  bushes  were  wet  with  rain.  Little  cold  showers 
sprinkled  the  dandy's  head  and  shoulders.  His  boots  sank 
deeper  as  the  wet  trickled  down  his  neck.  What  a  degrad- 
ing task  for  a  First  Diplomatic  Secretary!  With  what 
shrieks  of  laughter  his  lively  American  Countess  would 
read  his  written  description  of  his  experiences  as  a  spy  I  A 
corn  began  to  shoot.  He  sneezed.  This  meant  influenza 
to  a  certainty.  Even  while  he  devoted  Madame  Charles, 
her  bloodthirsty  spouse,  and  all  her  countrymen  to  the 
hottest  corner  of  Tophet,  he  kept  a  bright  lookout.  And  in 
another  five  minutes  or  so  he  saw  the  person  for  whom  he 
lay  in  waiting  coming  down  the  mossy  gravel  path  that 
wound  through  the  shrubbery. 

It  was  Jean  Jacques,  the  clumsy  foot  boy,  whose  mis- 
takes and  blunders  kept  the  Prussian  Chancery  attendants 
in  a  continual  eruption  of  abusive  German  epithets,  and 
whose  patois,  proclaimed  to  be  Swiss,  was  so  extremely 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  587 

puzzling  that  Hatzfeldt,  who  had  piqued  himself  upon  an 
exclusive  knowledge  of  the  French  of  the  Tyrol,  could  only 
assign  the  youth  to  a  canton  of  his  own.  He  thrust  his 
hand  into  the  Satyr's  toothed  gape  and  pulled  out  the 
letter,  twisted  a  wry  mug  as  he  regarded  it,  and  said,  with 
an  admirable  English  accent: 

"Oh,  damn!  .  .  ." 

Then,  at  the  urgent  tinkle  of  a  bell  from  the  kitchen 
regions,  he  thrust  the  missive  into  the  pocket  of  his  striped 
cotton  jacket  and  scampered  back  to  the  house. 

You  will  remember  that  when  Juliette  had  consented  to 
marry  the  unknown  Charles  Tessier,  she  had,  for  her  dear 
Colonel 's  very  sake,  adorned  the  faceless  one  with  features, 
a  complexion,  shoulders,  muscles,  and  so  on.  She  had  even 
boasted  to  Monica's  brother  of  the  swordsmanship  of  the 
worthy  but  unromantic  young  cloth  manufacturer,  whose 
most  sportsmanlike  accomplishment  was  the  shooting  of 
thrushes  and  sparrows,  which  he  would  bring  home  to  the 
Rue  de  Provence  in  triumph,  to  be  converted  by  his  ador- 
ing mother  into  savory  pies. 

Now,  during  these  days  of  tension  and  anxiety,  perhaps 
to  relieve  the  strain  of  an  otherwise  unbearable  situation — 
possibly  with  the  desire  of  inflicting  on  her  unfortunate 
adorer  the  torturing  pangs  of  jealousy,  or  possibly  to  create 
and  maintain  in  herself  a  fictitious  interest  in  the  suppositi- 
tious husband,  she  had  begun  anew  to  expatiate  upon  his 
gifts  and  graces,  and,  having  begun,  could  not  leave  off. 
Her  Charles  had  not  red  hair  and  yellow  gray  eyes,  a  blunt 
nose,  and  a  square  chin  with  a  dent  in  it.  He  was  pale, 
with  melancholy  black  eyes  and  a  high  brow.  His  jetty 
mustache  was  waxed,  his  imperial  finished  in  a  point  of 
the  most  elegant.  .  .  .  He  quoted  poetry  in  a  deep  voice, 
and  was  capable  of  torrential  outbursts  of  passion.  He 
was  altogether  a  perfect  specimen  of  the  type  of  Balzac's 
beautiful  young  man. 

Surfeited  with  these  perfections,  P.  C.  Breagh  had  be- 
come restive,  to  the  point,  one  day,  of  being  clumsily  sar- 
castic on  the  immunity  of  widows'  only  sons  from  the  obli- 
gation of  military  service,  and  so  on. 

That  afternoon  Madame  Charles  had  received  a  mysteri- 
ous communication  to  the  effect  that  her  lord  had  secretly 
quitted  Belgium,  penetrated  in  disguise  into  France,  passed 
through  the  Prussian  lines  in  a  series  of  hairbreadth 


588  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

escapes,  and  joined  a  corps  of  Francs-tireurs.  Since  when, 
letters  containing  tirades  inspired  by  the  most  flaming 
patriotism,  sanguinary  descriptions  of  adventure,  and  pas- 
sionate protestations  of  devotion,  had  been  found  at  inter- 
vals by  Madame  Charles  in  the  mouth  of  the  Satyr  mask. 
Of  late,  since  she  had  developed  nervousness  about  fetch- 
ing the  letters  herself,  Jean  Jacques  had  sulkily  performed 
the  office.  And  when  she  did  not,  with  due  precautions, 
declaim  these  effusions  for  the  benefit  of  her  victim  and 
fellow  conspirator,  his  was  the  task — inconceivably  repul- 
sive to  a  young  man  suffering  the  stabs  of  jealousy,  of  read- 
ing them  aloud  to  Madame  Charles.  Hence  the  expletive 
which  had  betrayed  his  British  nationality  to  Count  Hatz- 
feldt,  standing  disconsolate  in  his  squelching  patent 
leathers  under  the  dripping  lilac  and  syringa  trees. 


LXVIII 

FROM  Tours,  chief  town  of  the  Department  of  the  Indre  et 
Loire,  120  miles  southwest  of  Paris  as  the  crow  flies,  where 
Cremieux,  Minister  of  Justice,  and  rather  too  doddery  to 
be  of  efficiency  at  this  crisis,  had  established  the  Adminis- 
trative of  the  Provisional  Government  of  the  new  French 
Republic ; — whither  M.  Leon  Gambetta,  Minister  of  the  In- 
terior, Member  of  the  Board  of  National  Defense,  had 
recently  betaken  himself,  escaping  from  the  besieged  cap- 
ital to  Montdidier  as  a  passenger  in  the  car  of  a  balloon — 
whither  the  veteran  Garibaldi  had  now  arrived  to  offer  his 
services  in  the  cause  of  Liberty — from  Tours  had  come 
the  famous  diplomat  and  man  of  letters,  contemptuously 
dubbed  "Professor"  by  Count  Bismarck,  with  the  object 
of  carrying  out  the  peace  negotiations  in  whose  conduct 
the  tragic  patriarch  Favre  had  broken  down. 

You  saw  the  famous  Minister  and  author  of  the  Histoire 
du  Consulat  et  de  I' Empire,  as  a  little,  stocky,  black-clad 
old  gentleman  with  a  square  gray  head,  round,  clean-shaven 
face,  and  bright,  round  eyes,  looking  through  gold-rimmed 
spectacles.  .  .  .  Above  all,  a  patriot,  heart  and  soul  de- 
voted to  France,  the  position  of  this  famous  French  states- 
man of  seventy-five,  newly  returned,  empty  of  all  but  fair 
words  and  vain  courtesies,  from  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Courts 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  589 

•of  various  neutral  Powers,  was  horrible  and  painful  beyond 
words. 

Sad,  distracted,  anxious  little  gentleman,  charged  with 
the  mission  of  obtaining  those  needed  terms  of  peace,  or  at 
least  an  armistice  from  the  conqueror  upon  the  threshold, 
can  you  see  him,  in  the  shadow  of  the  magnificent  Temple 
erected  by  the  Sun  King,  toiling  and  moiling  with  his 
secretary,  the  younger  M.  Eemusat,  in  preparation  for 
those  anguish-fraught  interviews  with  the  German  Chan- 
cellor. 

The  tables  of  his  sitting-room  at  the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs 
were  piled  with  books  and  papers — papers  covered  with 
abstruse  calculations  dealing  with  the  most  urgent  need — 
the  provisioning  of  Paris — papers  dealing  with  the  question 
of  the  Elections — papers  dealing  with  the  General  Census 
— papers  of  every  imaginable  kind.  And  with  these,  from 
dawn  till  midnight,  the  little,  grief-worn  man  wrestled 
while  the  Tinsel  Rabble  and  their  staffs  of  German  officers 
reveled  in  the  dining-saloons,  and  trampled  and  shouted 
and  clanked  and  jingled  up  and  down  the  corridors,  and 
in  and  out  of  the  bedrooms ;  and  the  roar  of  the  guns  from 
the  forts  of  the  beleaguered  city  shook  the  windows  from 
time  to  time. 

Now  and  then  he  would  lie  back  exhausted  in  his  chair, 
or  lie  down  and  sleep,  if  sleep  ever  visited  him.  He  took 
his  frugal  meals  in  a  private  cabinet  opening  out  of  the 
great  dining-hall  of  the  restaurant.  Since  the  thirtieth  of 
October  he  had  been  engaged  in  this  wise,  save  when, 
having  been  first  compelled  to  apply  to  Count  Bismarck 
for  a  pass  and  a  military  safe-conduct,  he  would  meet  and 
confer  with  Favre,  or  one  of  his  other  colleagues,  at  some 
chosen  spot  without  the  walls  of  the  beleaguered  capital. 

Only  the  previous  day  he  had  trundled  down  in  a  little, 
shaky,  hired  brougham  to  the  half -ruined  and  wholly  de- 
serted suburb  of  Sevres,  preceded  by  an  officer  of  Uhlans 
with  a  White  Flag  on  a  pole. 

Day  after  day  the  little  brougham  had  drawn  up  before 
the  modest  house  in  the  Rue  de  Provence,  and  the  little 
gentleman,  whose  head  seemed  to  whiten  perceptibly,  had 
stepped  out  with  his  portfolio  under  his  arm,  as  now. 
Day  after  day  the  Chancery  footmen  would  open  the  door 
to  him,  and  Madame  Charles  Tessier,  hovering  in  the  back- 
ground, would  drop  the  representative  of  suffering  France 


590  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

her  lowest  curtsey,  and  sometimes  gain  a  brief  word  with 
his  unfailing  bow  and  smile.  To-day,  as  Major  von  Keudell 
appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  drawing-room — the  Chan- 
cellor being  closeted  in  his  private  interviewing-room 
upstairs  with  the  Eepublican  Mayor  of  Versailles — the 
little  gentleman  said  simply,  offering  his  hand  to  the 
eccentric-looking  person  in  the  cap  with  lappets  and  the 
white  shawl: 

' '  The  sympathy  that  is  expressed  in  looks  and  by  silence 
can  be  very  eloquent  and  very  touching.  From  my  heart 
I  thank  you  for  yours,  Madame ! ' ' 

And  as  she  had  burst  out  sobbing  and  kissed  the  hand, 
he  had  drawn  it  away  with  a  murmured  protest,  and  had 
passed  on  into  the  drawing-room  where  Von  Keudell  was 
to  hold  him  in  conversation  until  the  Mayor  had  been 
polished  off. 

But  M.  Thiers  had  endured  the  ordeal  with  a  courteous 
kind  of  resignation,  only  looking  at  his  watch  from  time 
to  time,  or  glancing  at  the  clock  over  which  presided  the 
horned,  bat-winged,  cloven-hoofed  and  tailed  figure  that 
tickled  the  fancy  of  his  oppressor  so  much. 

"His  Excellency  expected  me,"  he  said.  "There  has 
been  no  mistake  about  the  time  of  the  appointment — 
named  by  himself  at  our  previous  interview.  The  great- 
ness of  the  interests  concerned  are  apprehensible  by  His 
Excellency!" 

The  mild  sarcasm  rebounded  pointless  from  Von 
Keudell 's  bluff  rejoinder: 

"No,  no  mistake  at  all.  His  Excellency  has  merely 
shifted  the  hour.  From  half-past  twelve  to  a  quarter  to 
one — His  Excellency  found  it  more  convenient." 

"What  boors  are  these  Germans  I"  thought  the  angered 
diplomat,  writhing,  as  some  medieval  victim,  condemned 
to  undergo  torture  by  rack  and  fire,  might  have  writhed  at 
the  delay  of  the  hideous  ordeal. 

And  then  the  door  opened.  The  Chief  Torturer  looked 
in  with  the  salutation: 

"A  pleasant  day!  I  am  quite  at  your  service  now,  if 
you  will  come  up  to  me.  .  .  .  You  know  the  way,  I 
think?  .  .  ." 

And  the  great  figure  vanished,  and  the  heavy  footsteps 
thundered  up  the  drugget-covered  stairs. 

Did  the  sorrowful  visitor  know  the  way  to  the  torture- 


THE    MAX    OF    IRON  591 

chamber?  Surely  malice  must  have  prompted  the  query 
addressed  to  the  unfortunate  plenipotentiary  of  France. 

The  room  he  had  so  loathed  had  one  window  looking 
out  on  the  Rue  de  Provence,  and  another  at  the  south  side 
of  the  house,  where  stood  the  pine-tree  and  the  turtle- 
backed  green  glass  conservatory  with  the  wrought-iron 
bridge  above  it.  It  had  a  figured  gray  carpet,  a  green 
hearthrug  with  red  edges,  dark  green  stuff  curtains,  and 
various  oil-paintings  and  steel  engravings  hung  upon  the 
walls,  which  were  painted  coffee-tinted  cream.  It  was 
furnished  with  a  writing-table,  on  which  were  a  terrestrial 
globe,  a  celestial  one,  and  a  tellurion,  a  large  gray  marble- 
topped  chiffonier,  a  sofa  covered  with  chintz,  pattern  red- 
and-gray  birds-of-paradise  on  a  background  with  palm- 
leaves;  two  cane  chairs  and  a  round  center-table,  upon 
which  lay  a  platter  of  wood  containing  the  colored  glass 
marbles  with  which  one  plays  the  game  of  solitaire. 

It  was  a  game  of  solitaire  which  was  played  in  that  stiff, 
primly-furnished  apartment,  in  one  corner  of  which  stood 
a  mahogany  bedstead  of  Empire  pattern,  with  an  obsolete 
drapery  of  green-figured  brocade.  Such  a  game  as  may  be 
played  by  a  grim,  greedy,  gray-mustached  Grimalkin  with 
a  plump,  bright-eyed,  feebly-palpitating  mouse. 

M.  Thiers  had  been  gravely  imperiled  by  the  shell-fire 
of  the  French  guns  in  the  act  of  returning  from  Sevres  on 
the  previous  day,  a  mischance  which  had  increased  the 
palpitations  which  were  caused  by  his  heart  disease,  and 
wounded  his  feelings  cruelly.  Commented  the  Chancellor, 
to  whom  he  unwisely  related  the  episode : 

"Fortunately  the  cab-horse  was  too  ill-fed  to  bolt,  but 
the  window  was  broken,  and  you  were  mud-splashed  all 
over.  .  .  .  Not  exactly  the  first  time  that  your  country- 
men have  treated  you  in  that  way !  .  .  .  " 

And  this  first  scratch  of  the  claw  that  never  failed  to 
draw  blood  was  followed  by  the  query  whether  M.  Thiers 
were  provided  with  full  powers  for  carrying  on  the  nego- 
tiations ? 

The  Minister  added,  enjoying  his  victim's  start  and  look 
of  horrified  astonishment : 

"My  people  in  Paris  tell  me  that  there  has  been  prac- 
tically a  Revolution,  and  that  a  new  Government  is  coming 
into  power.  On  the  Place  before  the  Hotel  de  Ville  there 
were  yesterday  15,000  persons  assembled,  most  of  them 


S92  THE    MAN    OF,    IRON 

I 

National  Guards  from  the  Faubourgs,  disarmed  and  cry- 
ing: 'Vwe  la  Commune!  .  .  .  Point  d' Armistice!'  " 

He  went  on,  unheeding  the  writhing  of  the  sufferer, 
whose  dignity  had  been  so  cruelly  wounded : 

"It  appears  that  the  Mayors  of  Paris  had  been  sum- 
moned by  Arago,  and  were  in  one  room  conferring,  while 
in  the  other  was  the  Government.  Mobiles  guarded  the 
doors,  but  were  thrust  back  by  the  insurgents.  General 
Trochu  came  out  and  confronted  them.  He  could  only 
mouth  and  gesticulate  in  a  sort  of  dumb  Crambo.  Cries 
of  'A.  bos  Trochu/'  drowned  his  voice.  There  was  a  rush. 
.  .  .  One  does  not  know  how,  but  Trochu  finally  escaped 
out  of  their  clutches — got  out  by  a  back  door  and  cut  his 
lucky  to  the  Louvre.  .  .  .  Here  is  one  of  the  slips  of 
paper  that  were  thrown  from  the  windows  of  the  Hotel. 
.  .  .  They  have  'Commune  decretef.  Dorian  President!' 
upon  them.  There  was  a  scene  of  confusion  peculiar  to 
your  nation,  in  the  midst  of  which  M.  Felix  Pyat  and  other 
virtuous  citizens  proclaimed  the  Commune,  and  constituted 
themselves  into  a  Government  embracing  Blanqui,  Ledru- 
Rollin,  Delescluze,  Louis  Blanc,  and  Flourens.  .  .  ., 
Flourens  got  upon  a  table — made  himself  heard,  it  seems, 
finally  calling  upon  the  Members  of  the  Government  of 
National  Defense  to  resign.  M.  Jules  Favre  refused  .  .  ., 
was  arrested  with  the  old  Government — the  new  Govern- 
ment reigned  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  some 
battalions  of  Mobiles — the  106th  and  90th,  under  Picard — 
closed  in  upon  the  Hotel  and  ejected  them.  Trochu  was 
there  with  his  staff.  .  .  .  Since,  a  general  sort  of  agree- 
ment appears  to  have  been  arrived  at.  A  decree  signed  by 
Favre  was  placarded  yesterday,  announcing  that  on  Thurs- 
day next  a  vote  is  to  be  taken  whether  there  is  to  be  a 
Commune  or  not.  .  .  .  What  I  relate  happened  the  day 
before  yesterday.  Now,  if  Your  Excellency  saw  M.  Jules 
Favre  at  Sevres  yesterday  afternoon,  he  must  have  told 
you  of  the  turn  things  were  taking.  Oblige  me  with  a  plain 
answer  to  a  plain  question.  .  .  .  Did  he  tell  you,  or  did 
he  not?" 

The  humiliated  gentleman  bowed  his  head  assentingly. 
The  hot  sweat  of  a  mortal  agony  stood  upon  his  broad  fore- 
head, and  flushed  and  working  features.  His  glasses  were 
dimmed  with  the  reek  of  his  torment  and  his  shame.  The 
Enemy  knew  all.  There  was  no  concealing  anything  from 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  598 

one  so  well  served  by  spies  and  informers.  Probably  the 
cruel  interview  with  his  fellow-Minister  had  been  listened 
to,  from  its  beginning  to  its  end. 

Thiers  and  Favre  had  sat  on  two  iron  chairs  at  a  gayly 
painted  little  iron  table,  before  one  of  the  wrecked  cafes 
that  boasted  the  sign  of  La  Belle  Bouquetiere.  No  one  had 
been  near  except  a  haggard,  absinthe-sodden  wretch,  who 
lay  in  a  drunken  stupor  upon  the  pavement,  close  under 
the  broken  window  of  the  deserted  restaurant.  Perhaps 
that  drunken  man  had  been  his  spy.  .  .  .  What  was  he 
saying  in  the  harsh,  bullying  tones  that  grated  so?  .  .  . 

"The  mob  who  rode  roughshod  over  General  Trochu, 
and  his  Council  of  lawyers  and  orators,  appear  to  be  actu- 
ated by  the  desire  of  fighting  things  out  with  us.  They 
burn  for  a  chance,  it  appears,  to  pit  their  undisciplined 
courage  against  the  Army  of  United  Germany.  They  are 
hardly  to  be  blamed  for  accepting  literally  the  theatrical 
bombast  with  which  they  have  been  fed  by  Favre ! ' ' 

He  laughed,  and  said,  with  a  galling  imitation  of  the 
rhetorical  manner  of  the  Democratic  barrister  of  Lyons : 

"  'Not  a  stone  of  our  fortresses' — do  you  remember? 
'  Not  an  inch  of  our  territory ! ' — have  you  forgotten  ?  .  .  . 
When  it  was  in  the  power  of  the  person  to  whom  he  boasted 
to  have  said  to  him :  Every  inch.  Every  stone!  .  .  ." 

He  rose  up,  towering  over  the  unhappy  personage  who 
sat  opposite  to  him,  in  a  little  wicker  easy-chair  that  would 
have  suited  a  child.  His  greedy  vitality  physically  sucked 
energy  from  his  victim.  The  stare  of  his  great  eyes  op- 
pressed, the  roughness  of  his  speech  had  a  wounding 
brutality. 

"Which  Party  governs  France?  The  Blue  Republicans 
or  the  Reds,  answer  me  ?  Can  one  treat  with  a  State  that 
has  no  responsible  heads?" 

"Monsieur  le  Comte!"  screamed  the  personage  thus 
cruelly  prodded.  "Do  you  not  know  that  you  are  insult- 
ing me  ? " 

He  had  grown  deadly  pale,  and  now  flushed  red,  making 
a  passionate  gesture  as  though  to  strike  himself  on  the 
forehead,  as  the  other  asked  him  with  bitter  irony : 

"Is  the  truth  so  offensive  to  you  as  all  that?  ...  If 
you  did  not  wish  to  hear  it,  you  have  come  to  the  wrong 
shop.  The  day  for  compliments  and  flatteries  has  passed 
with  the  tinsel  Empire  of  your  Napoleon,  unless  you  compel 


594  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

us  to  bring  him  back  and  set  him  up  again  at  the  Tuileries. 
Believe  me,  he  has  contemplated  this  eventuality ! — has  his 
carpet-bags  ready  packed,  and  his  eagle  in  a  traveling-cage. 
.  .  .  And  certainly  we  could  discuss  the  military  questions 
at  issue  better  with  him  than  with  you  civilian  gentlemen, 
who  do  not  understand  the  language  of  War." 

It  was  not  possible  to  get  a  word  in  edgeways.  .  .  .  The 
rasping  voice  tore  the  nerve-fibers  as  with  a  saw-edge,  the 
towering  figure  overwhelmed,  the  powerful  stare  fascinated 
and  terrified  as  the  pitiless  gaze  of  the  snake  when  fixed 
upon  a  frog  or  a  bird. 

And  Bismarck  went  on,  deliberately  lashing  himself  into 
a  passion : 

' '  Are  you  and  your  colleagues  aware  that  I  suffer  in  my 
reputation  for  these  procrastinations?  It  is  said  at  home 
in  Germany  that  I  am  over-lenient  toward  the  French, 
our  treacherous  enemies  .  .  .  that  I  delay  to  reap  for 
United  Germany  the  glory  and  profit  for  which  she  has 
paid  so  terrible  a  price  in  blood.  Yourself  with  MM. 
Ducrot  and  Favre  have  considered  my  terms  for  an  armis- 
tice inadmissible.  ...  In  return  I  tell  you  you  have  for- 
feited the  right  to  criticize  any  terms  that  I  may  propose. 
.  .  .  You  would  hold  the  elections — even  in  those  provinces 
of  France  which  we  hold  as  conquerors !  You  would  repro- 
vision  Paris  and  her  fortresses !  We  should  be  hellish  un- 
practical if  we  listened  to  you!  .  .  .  What  the  big  devil! 
.  .  .  Are  we  to  permit  the  levies,  and  the  recruiting  by 
which  the  French  Eepublic  may  hurl  against  us  a  new 
army  to  shoot  down?  Himmelkreuzbombenelement!  .  .  . 
Do  you  take  us  for  sheep 's  heads  ? ' ' 

The  unhappy  Minister  protested  in  a  faint  voice : 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,  I  do  not  even  comprehend  the 
meaning  of  the  term!" 

"Ah,  by  God!"  thundered  the  terrible  voice,  "you  are 
ignorant  indeed  of  German  words  and  German  meanings, 
and  the  word  that  you  understand  least  of  all  when  applied 
to  yourselves  is  WAR  !  Silk  gloves  are  not  our  wear  in  War, 
and  therefore  the  iron  gloves  with  which  we  have  handled 
you  have  pinched  your  soft  flesh  and  made  you  squeal. 
We  might  complain  of  your  Francs-tireurs,  who  hide  in 
woods  and  houses,  and  shoot  our  soldiers  unawares ;  and  of 
the  inhumanity  of  your  mitrailleuses  which  cut  red  lanes 
through  whole  regiments.  But  no !  You  are  the  sufferers 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  595 

— you  are  to  be  pitied — even  for  the  injuries  you  wreak 
upon  yourselves.  ..." 

He  struck  with  his  clenched  fist  the  top  of  the  chiffonier 
near  which  he  stood,  and  the  dull  shock  of  the  contact  of 
that  sledge-hammer  of  muscle  and  bone  with  the  solid 
marble,  made  the  pictures  shake  upon  the  wall,  the  win- 
dows rattle  in  their  frames,  and  the  bewildered  listener 
leap  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

"I  rode  over  to  St.  Cloud  yesterday,"  he  went  on,  "to 
look  at  the  palace  you  have  set  on  fire  with  your  shells 
from  Mont  Valerien.  It  is  burning  still,  as  I  don't  doubt 
you  know.  A  well-dressed  French  gentleman  stood  looking 
at  the  smoldering  ashes  of  the  conflagration.  Near  him 
was  a  French  workman  in  a  dirty  blue  blouse — 'C'est 
I'&uvre  de  Bismarck!'  said  the  gentleman  to  the  plebeian, 
little  dreaming  who  was  near.  .  .  .  But  the  cad  in  the 

blouse  only  said  to  him:  'Why,  our gunners  did  that 

themselves!'  That  workman  had  more  sense  in  his  pump- 
kin than  the  whole  lot  of  you!" 

M.  Thiers  revived  under  the  fresh  insult  sufficiently  to 
plant  a  sting : 

"It  is  said,  Monsieur,  and  on  excellent  authority,  that 
the  Imperial  Palace  was  sacked  by  German  troops  before 
it  was  set  on  fire." 

The  Chancellor  lowered  his  heavy  brows  and  demanded 
almost  menacingly: 

"Do  you  assert  that  His  Majesty  the  King  or  the  Crown 
Prince  of  Prussia  were  parties  to  a  crime  of  this  kind  ? ' ' 

* '  No,  Monsieur,  not  for  an  instant ! ' ' 

The  Chancellor  said  with  a  short  laugh  that  had  no  mirth 
in  it: 

"That  is  fortunate,  otherwise  I  should  have  been  com- 
pelled to  break  off,  and  finally,  our  negotiations  with  regard 
to  this  question  of  an  Armistice,  and  deal  only  with  the 
question  of  the  territory  to  be  added — in  addition  to  the 
fortresses  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Rhine — and  those  six 
thousand  millions  of  francs  that  we  shall  certainly  take 
from  you!" 

The  thrust  caused  M.  Thiers  to  leap  to  his  feet,  gal- 
vanized into  a  feverish  energy.  He  screamed,  raising  his 
clenched  hands  and  sweeping  them  downward  and  out- 
ward: 

' '  It  cannot  be,  Monsieur  I — it  is  outrage — robbery — ruin  I 


596  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Europe  will  intervene  if  you  persist  in  such  a  demand!" 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  The  great  jovial  giant's  laugh  set  the 
crystal  drops  upon  the  mantelshelf-vases  and  the  wall- 
mirror  girandoles  tinkling,  and  reached  the  hearing  of 
Hatzfeldt  and  von  Keudell  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the 
decipherers  in  the  Bureau  below.  It  vibrated  through  the 
joists  and  planks  and  spaces  above  the  plastered  ceiling, 
and  made  Madame  Charles  start  where  she  lay  upon  the 
floor  of  her  bedroom  listening,  with  her  ear  pressed  to  the 
uncarpeted  boards. 

"My  good  sir,  you  are  making  game  of  me.  .  .  .  You 
have  visited  the  Courts  of  the  Powers — we  know  to  what 
profit.  .  .  .  You  have  solicited  intervention — to  be  told 
what  both  of  us  knew  very  well  before !  .  .  .  The  British 
Lion  may  lash  and  roar,  but  will  not  do  more,  that  is  cer- 
tain. England  has  not  sufficiently  recovered  from  the  war 
of  the  Crimea — from  the  further  drain  of  men  and  gold 
caused  by  the  Indian  Mutiny.  .  .  .  Austria,  in  spite  of 
creeds  and  bias — with  her  German-speaking  population  and 
her  Germanized  institutions — may  be  regarded  as  a  power- 
ful German  State.  Italy  lies  under  the  heel  of  Austria.  If 
the  Russian  Bear  elect  to  hug,  the  hugging  will  be  done 
upon  our  side.  For  it  is  inconceivable  that  Germany 
should  ever  be  at  war  with  Russia.  Our  interests  are  and 
have  always  been  one.  ..."  He  laughed  again,  and  said, 
laughing : 

"And,  knowing  this,  you  threaten  me  with  the  inter- 
vention of  European  Powers.  .  .  .  You  will  hear  nothing 
with  respect  to  forfeiture  of  territory !  .  .  .  You  refuse  to 
contemplate  the  question  of  the  Gold  Indemnity!  .  .  . 
Wait ! "  he  said — ' '  wait  until  the  bombardment  is  a  month 
old  and  the  bread-basket  is  empty.  .  .  .  Then  we  shall  hear 
you  sing  to  a  different  tune ! ' ' 

"Monsieur  le  Comte!  ..." 

The  old  man  tottered  to  his  feet.  He  was  ashen  in  hue, 
and  trembling.  His  blue  lips  hung  breathlessly  apart,  his 
eyes  had  a  lack-luster  stare  behind  their  gold-rimmed 
glasses ;  he  pressed  a  hand  over  his  left  breast  as  though  to 
repress  a  pang  of  pain. 

"  M.  le  Comte  ...  I  have  suffered  too  much.  ...  I  find 
myself  unable  to  continue  our  interview.  .  .  .  With  your 
permission  .  .  .  to-morrow  ?  .  .  . "  He  bowed  and  took  his 
hat  and  cane,  and  repeated  weakly:  "To-morrow?" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  597 

"With  pleasure!"  said  the  Man  of  Iron,  escorting  him 
to  the  door. 

And  the  old,  humiliated,  fallen  King-maker,  the  great 
literary  genius,  the  polished  orator — tottered  away  out  of 
the  presence  of  the  conqueror. 

He  was  to  return  upon  the  morrow,  and  for  many  days 
thenceafter,  to  be  played  with  and  tortured,  to  be  tan- 
talized and  mocked. 

He  was  to  return  flushed  with  futile  hope,  only  to  be 
crushed  and  retire  discomfited.  He  was  to  furnish  an  inex- 
haustible source  of  amusement  for  the  delectation  of  his 
implacable  enemy. 

He  was  to  return  after  a  prolonged  absence  within  the 
walls  of  the  beleaguered  capital,  he  and  others,  faint  with 
famine,  broken  by  anxiety,  shattered  by  suspense  and 
sleeplessness,  forced  by  sheer  hunger  to  sit  and  partake  at 
the  groaning  board  of  their  merciless  foe,  compelled  by  his 
arrogance  to  listen  to  his  jestings,  moistening  the  food 
they  placed  between  their  livid  lips,  with  the  stinging  salt 
of  tears. 


LXIX 

THE  center  of  a  small  but  lively  group,  composed  of  ad- 
mirers and  listeners,  Prussian  officers  known  in  Berlin, 
their  Bavarian  and  Hessian  friends  and  acquaintances, 
American  and  English  Press  Correspondents,  and  a  travel- 
ing Oriental  or  two — you  might  have  observed  Madame  de 
Straz — a  full-blown  Comtesse  now,  in  virtue  of  the  patent 
of  nobility  asserted  by  her  husband — in  the  restaurant  of 
the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs — not  always  accompanied  by  her 
Assyrian-featured  lord. 

Adelaide  had  not  grown  younger  since  the  adventure  of 
the  Silk  Scarf.  Her  bold  and  striking  beauty  had  suffered 
gravely,  though  her  figure,  set  off  by  its  fashionable  and 
well-chosen  dress,  was  as  supple  and  graceful  as  of  yore. 
She  looked  like  some  gorgeous  fruit  that  the  wasps  had 
ravaged,  and  to  conceal  this  she  made  up  heavily  and  wore 
thicker  veils.  What  she  now  lacked  in  loveliness  she  en- 
deavored to  make  up  in  espieglerie  and  easy-going  good- 
fellowship.  Not  a  few  officers  responded  with  enthusiasm 
to  her  pressing  invitations  to  breakfast  or  lunch  at  the  little 


598  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

country  villa  she  and  M.  de  Straz  had  rented,  at  Maisons 
Lafitte  beyond  St.  Germain. 

One  need  hardly  say  that  there  was  play  on  these  occa- 
sions, besides  excellently  prepared  dishes  and  a  liberal  flow 
of  the  champagne,  besides  the  cognac  and  liqueurs  of  which 
Madame  drank  a  good  deal. 

To  quiet  her  nerves,  raveled  by  the  unhappy  situation 
of  her  beloved  country,  she  declared,  for  it  suited  her  to  be 
a  Frenchwoman  now. 

She  would  have  dearly  liked  to  inveigle  a  Duke,  Grand  or 
Hereditary,  or  even  a  Prince  Regnant,  to  her  roof -tree  and 
her  baccarat-board,  but  these  personages,  bestarred  and 
beribboned,  furred,  jack-booted,  buck-skinned  and  long- 
spurred,  were  as  shy  as  the  hares  and  partridges  in  the 
forest,  that  were  incessantly  cracked  at  by  hungry  pot- 
hunters. Wherefore  the  sumptuous  Adelaide  must  per- 
force be  contented  with  Counts  and  Barons,  whose  purses 
were  less  lengthy  than  their  pedigrees,  as  a  rule. 

"A  solitary  nest  and  too  remote,  it  may  be.  ...  But 
for  a  bride  and  bridegroom,  solitude  and  remoteness  have 
their  advantages!"  had  proclaimed  M.  de  Straz,  with  a 
shrug  of  infinite  meaning,  and  suggestive  glances  of  his 
black  Oriental  eyes.  Certainly  the  guests  of  Madame  and 
Monsieur,  even  when  conveyed  to  the  destination  in  hired 
broughams  and  victorias,  were  wont  to  find  the  road,  run- 
ning through  abandoned  villages  and  by  deserted  chateaux, 
unexpectedly  barricaded  with  felled  timber  and  scarred 
with  unfinished  trenches,  more  than  a  trifle  long. 

The  nest  of  these  love-birds,  half  a  mile  from  the  sacked 
railway  station  and  the  broken  bridge  of  Maisons  Lafitte, 
was  enclosed  in  private  grounds.  The  villa  Laon — how  or 
from  whom  acquired,  nobody  ever  thought  of  questioning — 
was  a  cottage  with  Swiss  gables  and  East  Indian  verandas 
standing  in  gardens  adorned  with  glass  arcades  and  Italian 
pergolas,  their  vines  and  roses  stripped  and  shuddering  in 
the  bitter  wintry  winds.  There  were  also  Chinese  bridges 
crossing  pieces  of  ornamental  water,  aviaries  of  finches  and 
canaries,  and  wired  enclosures  once  well  stocked  with  silver 
pheasants,  now,  thanks  to  the  nocturnal  ravages  of  mys- 
terious marauders,  depopulated  in  a  manner  painful  to 
behold. 

"You  pretend,"  said  Valverden  teasingly  to  Adelaide, 
"that  the  neighbors  creep  out  at  night  and  annex  the 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  599 

pheasants,  or  that  our  cavalry  pickets  take  them  for  the 
mess-pot,  or  that  they  are  stolen  by  Francs-tireurs.  Francs- 
tireurs  there  are  in  plenty  in  the  neighborhood — every 
hour  some  honest  German  soldier  gets  his  death  at  the 
hands  of  one  of  these  scoundrels! — but  as  far  as  concerns 
the  vanished  inmates  of  the  pens  and  cages,  I  believe  you 
and  M.  de  Straz  have  eaten  them  yourselves." 

He  stretched  his  long  spurred  legs  out  over  the  brocade 
of  an  Empire  sofa  gracing  Madame 's  boudoir,  and  leaning 
back  his  handsome  head,  looked  up  at  her  teasingly. 

"With  my  assistance,  for  that  salmis  we  had  for  break- 
fast was  of  home  production  I  am  certain.  Come,  own 
that  I  have  guessed  as  well  as  Mariette  can  cook  at  a 
pinch." 

Adelaide  frowned  and  bit  her  lip.  But  she  let  her  gaze 
dwell  lingeringly  on  the  upturned  face  of  the  handsome 
Guardsman,  and  said,  seeming  to  search  for  her  own  sulky, 
splendid  image  in  the  blue  eyes  with  which  Adonis  made 
play: 

"If  you  were  less  like  Max  I  believe  I  should  detest 
you!  ..."  She  added,  after  an  instant:  "And  if  you 
resembled  him  more  than  you  do,  you  would  find  no  wel- 
come here. ' ' 

"Beyond  salmis  of  pet  pheasants,  and  stewed  carp  out 
of  your  landlord 's  fish-ponds. ' '  His  red  lips  rolled  back  in 
a  grin  that  showed  the  strong  white  teeth,  the  fuzzy  ends 
of  his  fair  mustache  sparkled  as  though  the  hair  had  been 
sprinkled  with  gold-dust.  "Who  is  your  landlord?  I  am 
dying  to  know.  Do  you  rent  the  place  of  the  gardener,  or 
that  pompous-looking  butler  who  has  not  got  the  key  of 
the  cellars,  but  nevertheless  can  produce  champagne  of 
Comet  brand  and  excellent  Roussillon.  Or  is  it  a  specula- 
tive partnership?  Some  of  us  have  dropped  a  good  deal 
of  money  here  in  play  lately.  .  .  .  They  are  beginning  to 
grumble  noisily — particularly  that  little  black-haired  aide- 
de-camp  of  the  Duke  of  Coburg,  and  von  Kissling  of  the 
squadron  of  Blue  Dragoons  quartered  here  at  Maisons 
Lafitte.  .  .  .  What's  in  the  wind  I  don't  pretend  to  know, 
but  they  might  get  you  turned  out  of  here — they  might 
even  obtain  an  order  from  Headquarters  for  the  return  of 
their  lost  cash  I  ..." 

' '  Bernhard ! ' '  Her  ringed  white  hands  tenderly  caressed 
his  forehead.  "You  will  protect  me  from  them! — you  will 


600  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

stand  my  friend !  Oh !  how  horrible  it  is  to  want  money — 
always  money!" 

Valverden  said,  neatly  biting  off  the  end  of  a  cigar  and 
spitting  the  nipped-off  end  through  the  open  glass-doors 
leading  out  upon  the  veranda: 

"Has  not  M.  de  Straz  got  any  money?  And  did  not 
my  Cousin  Max  give  you  enough?  .  .  .  You  used  to  seem 
uncommonly  flush  of  the  ready  when  one  saw  you  queening 
it  among  the  gay  cocottes  of  Berlin." 

His  tone  cut  like  a  whip.  But  Adelaide  was  growing 
used  to  take  insults  with  outward  meekness.  She  swal- 
lowed her  wrath  and  even  tried  to  smile. 

It  was  horribly  true  that  she  had  need  of  money.  Even 
before  she  had  fallen  into  her  present  state  of  servitude, 
she  had  known  that  a  day  was  coming  when  she  would  be 
penniless. 

Like  all  other  women  of  her  sensuous  tastes  and  clam- 
orous predilections,  Adelaide  devoured  money  as  a  pussy- 
cat crunches  up  small  birds.  Her  dead  lover  had  spent 
upon  her  lavishly,  had  provided  that  an  income  should  be 
paid  her  out  of  his  private  estate.  But  it  was  not  sufficient 
for  a  woman  so  extravagant,  and  Adelaide  had  supple- 
mented it  in  various  ways.  Firstly,  by  obtaining  informa- 
tion for  the  Prussian  Secret  Intelligence  Bureau.  Sec- 
ondly, by  tapping  the  bank-balances  of  admirers  of  the 
wealthier  order.  Thirdly,  by  signing  Bills  of  Exchange 
and  Promissory  Notes  for  cash  at  ruinous  rates  of  interest. 
When  she  had  conceived  the  idea  of  obtaining  a  recon- 
ciliation with  Henri  de  Bayard,  the  prospect  of  incarcera- 
tion in  a  debtor's  prison  had  loomed  very  near. 

The  cunning  fable  of  her  riches  that  had  been  devised  to 
tempt  him  to  his  ruin,  had  failed  through  the  very  white- 
ness of  the  man's  integrity.  Ah,  Adelaide!  The  way  to 
have  triumphed  over  the  Colonel  would  have  been  to  have 
crept  in  tatters  as  a  beggar  to  his  door. 

But  she  had  never  understood  the  man.  Let  us  hope 
that  generous  soul  of  his  was  spared  knowledge  of  the 
degradation  of  the  woman  he  had  worshiped,  as  Valverden 
went  on,  barely  deigning  to  hide  his  contempt  of  her,  or  to 
modify  even  slightly  the  insolence  of  his  tone: 

"You  have  asked  me  to  protect  you.  I  have  no  objec- 
tion to  doing  so.  My  sympathy  is  not  at  all  with  the  losers 
who  squeal.  Even  when  I  was  as  poor  as  a  church-mouse 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  601 

I  had  the  gift  of  being  plucked  without  wincing.  Besides, 
I  won  money  that  night  when  Von  Kissling  dropped  such 
a  lot.  .  .  .  And  of  course  my  testimony  would  be  worth — 
something.  ..." 

His  tone  of  bargaining  was  unmistakable.  Adelaide 
flushed  a  dusky-red,  through  which  the  fading  streaks  of 
Straz  's  love-gift  showed  plainly,  and  her  dark  eyes  gleamed 
covetously  as  she  bent  over  the  young  man.  She  whis- 
pered with  her  hot  lips  almost  touching  the  diagonal  white 
band  of  forehead  above  his  soldierly  sunburn: 

"What,  Bernhard?  Tell  me  what  it  would  be  worth  to 
you.  ..." 

His  long  blue  eyes  laughed  up  into  hers,  lazily.  He  said, 
feeling  for  the  silver  case  in  which  he  carried  his  fusees : 

"Shall  we  say  ...  a  little  information  regarding  the 
whereabouts  of  Mademoiselle  Titania.  .  .  .  M.  de  Straz  has 
piqued  my  curiosity,  you  will  observe." 

"So!  .  .  ." 

She  reared  above  him  like  a  furious  Hamadryad,  whis- 
pering thickly,  for  rage  dried  up  her  tongue : 

"  So  it  is  of  my  daughter  you  and  Nicolas  have  been  talk- 
ing apart  together,  both  here  and  at  the  Hotel  des  Reser- 
voirs. Are  you  both  mad?  For  a  pale,  plain,  dull  school- 
girl ...  a  peaky,  undeveloped,  mincing  doll ! ' ' 

He  raised  himself  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  answered  her 
coarsely : 

"Women  like  you  cannot  realize  what  is  or  is  not  pleas- 
ing to  men  of  my  standard.  The  Prince  Imperial  must 
have  seen  a  good  many  pretty  women,  young  as  he  is,  yet 
he  found  your  daughter  charming,  I  am  told.  .  .  .  M.  de 
Straz,  who  is  a  judge,  admires  her  excessively.  ...  If  my 
curiosity  is  tickled,  the  fault  is  your  own,  for  it  was  you 
and  not  M.  Straz  who  first  engaged  my  interest  in  that 
quarter.  .  .  .  Did  I  not  speak  to  Count  Moltke  at  your 
request  of  Mademoiselle  ?  Well,  he  did — though  at  first  he 
scouted  the  notion — sound  Count  Bismarck  on  the  subject, 
when  he  called  to  congratulate  him  on  his  First  Class  of 
the  Iron  Cross,  and  be  complimented  on  his  own  Order 
Pour  Le  Merit  e." 

He  folded  his  arms  on  his  broad  chest  and  dropped  the 
words  out  lingeringly,  relishingly,  his  blue  eyes  gloating 
over  the  changes  in  her  tortured  face : 

"And  the  Chancellor  answered  him:  'Do  not  you  trouble 


602  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

yourself  1  All  is  well  with  the  pretty  young  daughter  of  de 
Bayard,  by  that  disreputable  old  woman  who  played  the 
mistress  of  Count  Max  in  '67. '  ' 

She  screamed,  and  struck  with  her  clenched  hand  at  the 
fair,  flushed,  grinning  face  as  though  she  would  willingly 
have  battered  out  its  beauty.  He  caught  her  wrist  with  a 
fencer's  quickness,  and  prisoned  the  other  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye.  He  went  on,  holding  her  immovable,  leisurely 
enjoying  the  changes  upon  her  tortured  face : 

"As  a  good  German  I  do  not  interfere  with  my  superiors. 
His  Excellency  knows  where  the  girl  is,  and  does  not  at 
present  choose  to  tell.  But  you,  Werte  Frau,  have  the 
right  to  question  His  Excellency,  whose  answer  was  re- 
peated to  me  by  my  Chief,  Count  Moltke.  Do  not  forget, 
however,  that  you  lay  claim  to  the  disrepute  as  well  as  the 
daughter  when  you  present  yourself  at  the  Foreign  Office 
...  in  the  Rue  de  Provence.  .  .  ." 

She  panted  breathlessly: 

"I  shall  not  go!    No  one  shall  compel  me!" 

"Oh,  in  that  case,"  said  Valverden,  rising  and  releasing 
her, ' '  I  can  only  leave  you  to  the  arguments  of  M.  de  Straz. 
He  is  coming  now — I  can  hear  his  voice  in  the  garden.  Auf 
Wiedersehen!"  He  said  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  lounged 
out  of  the  cottage :  "In  the  affair  of  Von  Kissling,  do  not 
count  on  my  assistance.  It  is  only  given  on  condition  you 
fall  in  with  our  views." 

So  he  and  Straz  were  in  league.  .  .  .  Rage  stung  her  to 
the  mad  imprudence  of  rebellion — the  proud  sultana  whom 
a  thousand  freakish  cruelties  on  the  part  of  her  swarthy 
master  had  taught  to  be  a  trembling  slave. 

The  Roumanian,  we  know,  was  nothing  if  not  subtle. 
When  Adelaide  flatly  refused  to  call  at  the  Foreign  Office 
in  the  Rue  de  Provence  in  the  character  of  a  bereaved  and 
yearning  mother,  he  smiled  on  her,  almost  tenderly.  He 
kissed  the  wrists  Valverden 's  grip  had  bruised. 

"Queen  Rose  of  my  Garden  of  Delights,"  he  said,  "why 
did  you  let  the  girl  go  in  the  beginning?  You  recognized 
her  value  even  when  you  did  not  know  that  she  has  money 
in  her  own  right." 

Money.  ...  A  new  light  began  to  break  upon  Adelaide. 
The  fear  of  a  sudden  and  violent  death  no  longer  stiffened 
her  muscles.  She  moistened  her  lips,  pale  under  their  rose- 
tinged  salve,  and  lifted  her  eyebrows  inquiringly. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  603 

"Money,  soul  of  my  soul,"  said  Straz,  who  had  almost 
reverted  to  the  original  gushing  and  poetic  Nicolas  of  Ade- 
laide's  remembrance,  the  lover  whom  in  pre-Sigmaringen 
days  she  had  cajoled  and  despised  and  betrayed.  "Not  a 
large  fortune  certainly,  but  between  her  grandmother's 
estate  and  her  father's  savings  she  has  a  sum  of  80,000 
francs  invested  in  the  Belgian  cloth  manufactory  and 
dyeing  works  of  M.  Charles  Tessier.  Not  a  fortune,  but  not  a 
sum  to  be  at  all  despised. ' '  He  added :  "I  have  obtained  this 
information  from  a  person — formerly  a  clerk  in  the  employ- 
ment of  the  Versailles  firm  of  solicitors  who  enjoyed  the 
confidence  of  M.  le  Colonel  and  his  sainted  mother."  The 
quirk  of  his  lips  and  the  roll  of  his  eyes  as  he  made  this 
reference,  so  unsavory  in  the  ears  of  Adelaide,  cannot  be 
described.  "From  this  retentive  person — I  refer  to  the  ex- 
clerk — I  have  purchased  the  intelligence  I  now  divide  with 
her  who  has  the  right  to  share  the  secrets  of  my  heart." 

Adelaide  had  previously  seated  herself,  at  a  motion  of 
his  finger.  She  looked  up  now  as  he  thrust  a  hand  between 
his  vest  and  shirt-bosom.  Their  glances  met.  He  said  to 
her  with  a  snap  of  his  thick  white  fingers : 

"No!  Put  that  out  of  your  head,  ma  cocotte!  Not  a 
sou  of  de  Bayard's  will  ever  come  his  widow's  way." 

This  uncanny  faculty  of  the  Roumanian  for  reading  her 
unspoken  thoughts  was  one  of  the  secrets  of  his  power  over 
Adelaide.  She  shuddered  now,  encountering  his  look. 

"Don't  you  know,"  he  was  demanding,  "that  with  her 
unique  beauty  Mademoiselle  would  be  a  fortune  in  our 
pockets  even  were  she  penniless?  What!  you  doubt  the 
justice  of  my  taste — which  placed  on  you  the  seal  of  ap- 
proval when  your  own  charms  were  at  their  perihelion. 
You  who  have  paid  the  price  for  those  supreme  moments 
when  celestial  flames  enveloped  you — when  you  knew  your- 
self nearest  to  the  bosom  of  the  Sun." 

Were  all  the  men  in  league  with  this  man  to  taunt  and 
mock  and  torture  her?  A  fierce  surge  of  blood  rushed  to 
her  brain.  She  heard  his  thick  chuckle  as  she  loosened, 
with  shaking  hands,  the  lace  about  her  throat. 

"Why  do  you  not  kill  me  outright?"  she  cried  to  him, 
as  the  tide  rushed  back  to  her  heart,  and  left  her  livid. 
"Are  you  not  yet  weary  of  playing  this  hideous  farce  of 
marriage?  Why  murder  me  by  inches?  .  .  .  Will  you 
never  set  me  free  ?  .  . " 


604  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

He  said,  combing  his  clubbed  beard  with  his  thick  yellow- 
white  finger-tips: 

"When  you  have  helped  to  get  back  Mademoiselle,  I 
will  think  about  providing  you  an  honorable  retirement. 
Come !  Be  pliant.  .  .  .  You  have  my  word  that  you  shall 
be  free.  But  without  funds,"  he  shrugged,  "who  can  do 
anything?  And  Mademoiselle  has  these  expectations  .  .  . 
and  beyond  these  I  have  certain  definite  arrangements  with 
— a  certain  personage — who  is — content  to  pay  handsomely 
for  an  introduction  to  her." 

She  cast  caution  to  the  four  winds  and  shrieked  at  him 
furiously : 

"  'De  Bayard's  daughter  by  that  disreputable  old 
woman!  .  .  .'  Ah,  for  that  he  shall  indeed  pay  hand- 
somely!" 

For  though  the  sentence  quoted  by  Valverden  bore  the 
unmistakable  stamp  of  the  Iron  Chancellor's  mintage,  the 
tone  in  which  the  words  had  been  repeated,  the  icy  glance 
of  contempt  that  had  accompanied  them,  rankled  in  the 
flesh  of  the  unhappy  woman,  like  barbed  thorns. 

The  venom  wrought  in  her  still,  even  to  hardihood  and  a 
courage  bordering  on  effrontery,  when  a  few  days  later  her 
hired  carriage  drew  up  before  the  sentried  gate  of  the 
Tessier  mansion  in  the  Rue  de  Provence,  early  in  the  fore- 
noon of  a  December  day. 


LXX 

ONE  of  the  black-garbed  Chancery  attendants  opened  the 
yellow-painted  hall-door.  ,Madame  tendered  him  a  card, 
and  said  in  her  most  musical  tones,  plying  the  archery  of 
her  fine  eyes: 

"Madame  de  Straz,  formerly  de  Bayard.  By  appoint- 
ment to  see  His  Excellency  the  Chancellor. ' ' 

Von  Keudell  looked  out  of  the  drawing-room  and  sig- 
naled. The  Chancery  attendant  caught  his  eye.  Madame, 
borne  upon  a  gale  of  costly  perfume,  swept  her  velvets  and 
Russian  sables  over  the  Foreign  Office  threshold,  and 
amidst  the  tinkling  of  lockets,  and  charms,  and  bracelets 
innumerable,  was  ushered  into  the  drawing-room. 

As  the  door  shut,  and  the  Chancery  attendant  resumed 
his  bench  and  his  German  newspaper,  Jean  Jacques  Potier, 


THE    MAN    OF.   IRON 

who  had  been  polishing  the  hall  parquet  with  a  flannel 
clout  on  one  foot  and  a  brush  strapped  on  the  other,  re- 
sumed his  labors  with  a  very  red  face.  Madame  Charles 
Tessier,  who  had  been  watering  the  ferns  and  pot-plants  on 
the  console-tables,  wrapped  in  the  woolen  shawl  that 
seemed  parcel  of  her  individuality,  might  have  struck  the 
young  man,  when  he  furtively  glanced  at  her,  as  being 
whiter  than  her  shawl. 

But  the  deadly  whiteness  passed,  and  the  rigor  of  terror 
could  add  little  stiffness  to  the  gait  that  was  a  compound 
of  a  limp  and  a  shuffle,  as  the  Twopenny  Roue's  bugbear 
climbed  the  back-stairs  to  her  second-floor  room. 

Madame  Potier  slept  in  the  next.  One  could  hear  her 
making  beds  on  the  first-floor  beneath  one.  Judging  by 
the  sounds,  she  was  sweeping  the  Chancellor's  sleeping- 
room.  Knock-knock!  went  her  busy  broom  every  instant, 
against  the  furniture  or  the  wainscot.  Flip-flap!  That 
was  the  duster,  being  shaken  out  of  the  window.  "When 
the  Minister  was  unwell,  and  kept  his  room,  Madame  did 
not  sweep,  but  merely  dusted  and  made  the  bed.  And  he 
lay  on  the  sofa,  pulled  near  the  fire  and  lengthened  with  a 
settee,  or  worked  with  his  back  to  the  window,  at  a  table 
in  the  middle  of  the  room.  There  were  two  great  black 
leather  dispatch-boxes  on  the  table,  and  a  great  many 
maps  of  France,  covered  with  marginal  annotations;  and 
the  brass-handled  mahogany  bureau  near  the  washstand- 
alcove  was  piled  high  with  boxes  of  long,  strong  Bremen 
cigars.  And  by  the  bed  was  the  night-table,  with  the 
framed  photographs  of  his  daughter  and  Countess  Bis- 
marck, his  traveling  candlestick,  a  supply  of  hard  wax  can- 
dles in  a  box,  matches;  a  volume  of  Treitschke's  "Heidel- 
berg Lectures,"  with  several  little  good  books,  in  cloth 
bindings,  "Daily  Readings  for  Members  of  the  Society  of 
Moravian  Brethren, ' '  and  ' '  Pearls  from  the  Deep  of  Scrip- 
ture, ' '  as  well  as  a  bottle  of  patent  medicine  and  a  box  of 
pills,  both  of  which  nostrums  were  renewed  constantly, 
and  neither  of  which  seemed  to  do  him  any  good. 

For  he  coughed  and  hawked  and  spat  bile  continually. 
Rarely  was  he  silent  before  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
then  it  might  be  that  one  ceased  to  hear  him,  because  one 
had  succeeded  in  wooing  sleep  for  oneself.  Something 
ailed  him.  Those  who  knew  him  best  gave  no  name  to  his 
ailment.  Others  whispered  of  catarrh  of  the  stomach. 


606  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Yet  others  were  oracular  upon  the  subject  of  dyspepsia  of 
the  acute  kind. 

Whatever  the  indisposition,  it  was  fostered  by  the  indis- 
criminate generosity  of  his  admirers,  who  continually  for- 
warded from  all  parts  of  the  German  Fatherland  huge 
consignments  of  delicacies  solid  and  fluid  for  the  delecta- 
tion of  their  Chancellor. 

Choice  wines,  rare  cigars  and  fine  tobacco,  liqueurs  and 
old  corn-brandies,  cold  punch  in  barrels,  beer  of  Berlin 
and  Leipzig,  and  the  brunette  drink  beloved  of  Bava- 
rians. Smoked  Pomeranian  goose-breasts,  cakes,  sau- 
sages of  every  variety,  fresh  salmon  and  sturgeon,  pickled 
tunny,  herrings  and  caviar,  game  of  all  kinds,  smoked 
hams  of  bear,  deer,  mutton,  and  pig.  Magdeburg  sauer- 
kraut and  Leipzig  pastry,  preserves  and  fruit,  fresh 
and  candied,  gorged  the  capacious  storerooms  and  cellars 
of  the  Tessier  mansion,  which  would  have  been  found  in- 
adequate to  accommodate  all  these  mountains  of  good 
things,  had  not  each  Privy  Councilor,  Secretary  and  de- 
cipherer of  the  Chancellor's  perambulating  Foreign  Office 
possessed  a  capacity  for  gorging  only  inferior  to  the 
Chief's. 

In  truth,  this  great  Minister,  so  pitiless  in  his  mockery 
of  the  idiosyncrasies  and  weaknesses  of  others,  habitually 
overate  himself;  showing  as  little  mercy  toward  his  stom- 
ach as  the  staff  of  the  Berlin  Chancellery  displayed  toward 
the  gorged  and  replete  leather  dispatch-bags  that  came  to 
him  by  every  post.  He  was  horribly  greedy,  and  drank  a 
great  deal,  and  his  stomach-aches,  like  himself,  were  on  the 
colossal  scale.  More  than  once  Madame  Charles  had  minis- 
tered to  their  assuagement  with  infusions  of  carbonate  of 
soda  and  peppermint. 

"One  should  check  the  appetite  when  one  suffers  thus 
from  overindulgence,"  she  had  once  said  to  him,  stirring 
her  dreadful  infusion  with  an  ivory  measuring-spoon. 

"The  French  climate  does  not  suit  me.  .  .  ."  he  had 
answered  her.  "In  Germany  I  can  eat  a  great  deal  more 
than  I  do  here.  Not  that  I  eat  much  really,  because  my 
dinner  is  my  only  meal." 

"But,  just  Heaven!  Monseigneur!  what  a  meal!"  she 
had  screamed  at  him  in  horror.  And  the  room  had  re- 
sounded to  his  giant's  Ha,  ha,  ha! 

"Without  a  head  and  stomach  of  iron,"  he  told  her, 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  607 

i 

"such  as  we  Bismarcks  inherit  from  our  ancestors,  and 
Gottingen  has  helped  to  render  more  tough,  it  would  have 
heen  impossible  in  my  young  days  to  get  on  in  the  Diplo- 
matic Service.  "We  drank  the  weaker  men  under  the  table, 
then  lifted  them  up,  propped  them  between  chairs,  and 
made  them  sign  their  names  to  all  sorts  of  concessions 
which  they  would  not  have  dreamed  of  making  other- 
wise. ...  To  this  day  I  can  toss  down  the  strongest  wines 
of  the  Palatinate  like  water  with  my  dinner.  Champagne 
I  need,  and  the  bigger  glasses  I  get  it  in  the  more  it  agrees 
with  me.  .  .  ,  Port,  such  as  the  English  sip  with  dessert, 
I  prefer  as  a  breakfast- wine.  Corn-brandy,  such  as  our 
Old  Nordhausen,  is  indispensable  for  the  oiling  of  my, 
machinery ;  and  I  derive  benefit  from  rum,  taken  after  the 
Eussian  fashion,  with  my  eight  or  nine  cups  of  after- 
dinner  tea." 

He  added,  sipping  Madame  Charles's  fiercely-smelling 
nostrum : 

"Not  that  anything  I  have  drunk  or  eaten  mars  my 
capacity  for  cool  reflection  and  close  argument.  .  .  .  "When 
I  and  one  or  two  others  are  laid  by,  men  will  only  peck  and 
sip.  There  will  only  be  chatter  about  eating  and  drinking. 
.  .  .  Grosser  Gottf  What  things  I  used  to  do  in  that  line 
when  I  was  young!" 

And  he  tossed  off  the  contents  of  the  tumbler,  and 
mouthed  at  it,  and  set  it  down  upon  the  little  tray  she  held 
and  dismissed  her  with  a  nod  of  thanks. 

But  Madame  Charles  carried  away  with  her  an  idea  of 
him  as  he  had  been  in  those  old  days,  huge,  loud,  voracious, 
powerful,  tempestuously  jovial  or  ironically  grim.  She 
crowned  the  domed  head  with  thick  waving  locks  of  brown 
hair,  lightened  the  shaggy  brows,  and  gave  the  blue  eyes 
back  their  youthful  fire ;  smoothed  the  deep  lines  from  the 
florid  face,  restored  his  long  heavy  limbs  their  shapeliness, 
and  reduced  the  girth  of  his  waist.  And  it  was  impossible 
to  despise  the  finished  picture,  because  the  man  was  so 
much  a  man. 

Day  by  day,  while  the  "War  went  on,  and  Paris  lay 
raging  and  spitting  fire  within  her  impregnable,  impassable 
girdle  of  human  flesh  and  steel  and  iron — to  this  house 
where  he  sat  solid  and  square  at  his  table  in  his  bedroom- 
study,  reading  over  documents  vomited  by  the  great  dis- 
patch-boxes, or  letters  and  papers  captured  with  balloon- 


608  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

posts,  or  driving  the  pen  with  that  tireless  hand  of  his  over 
sheets  to  be  conned  by  Monarchs  and  rulers  of  States — 
came  the  Crown  Prince  of  Prussia,  handsome  and  debon- 
naire,  or  the  dry,  withered  gentleman  who  bore  the  great 
name  of  von  Moltke,  or  the  War  Minister  von  Roon,  or  M. 
Thiers,  or  the  Saxon  Minister  von  Friesen,  or  the  Grand 
Dukes  of  Weimar  or  Baden,  or  the  Duke  of  Coburg,  or  the 
Representatives  of  Austria-Hungary  and  Bavaria,  or  the 
English  Ambassador,  who  had  recently  come  upon  a  Mission 
to  Versailles.  Night  after  night,  other  and  stranger  foot- 
steps crossed  the  threshold.  Sometimes  blindfolded  officers 
in  stained  and  weatherbeaten  French  uniforms  had  been 
led  upstairs  to  that  mysterious  room  where  he  sat,  weaving 
his  huge  web  of  diplomacy,  or  manipulating  with  deft, 
capable  touches  the  threads  that  moved  both  men  and 
Kings. 

Everyone  came  to  this  house  on  the  quiet  by-street  of 
Versailles,  that  had  become  the  throbbing  center  of  the 
world.  .  .  .  From  the  greatest  to  the  smallest,  from  the 
worthiest  to  the  vilest.  Now,  last  of  all  came — Adelaide 
de  Bayard. 

And  with  her  came  the  question:  How  much  he  sus- 
pected. There  had  been  one  or  two  moments  when  Juliette 
had  been  temporarily  thrown  off  her  guard.  Could  one 
really  deceive  him,  who  was  so  subtle,  watchful,  observant? 
.  .  .  Past  master  in  cunning,  ripe  in  diplomacy.  .  .  . 

She  heard  his  heavy  footstep  on  the  staircase  as  she  held 
her  bosom  and  listened.  Madame  Potier  had  finished  his 
bedroom,  and  taken  her  broom  and  dustpan  to  the  next. 
Madame  de  Bayard  had  been  shown  into  the  smaller  inter- 
viewing-room,  where  the  Brussels  carpet  had  been  paced 
into  threadbare  alleys  by  the  feet  of  men  who  were  topped 
by  aching  responsibilities — where  the  Crown  Prince  of 
Prussia  smoked  his  big  painted  pipe  of  Latakia  as  he 
chatted  with  the  Chancellor — where  M.  Thiers  sat  through 
long  ordeals  of  torture  in  the  little  wicker  arm-chair. 

Would  the  mother  of  Juliette  de  Bayard  sit  in  that 
chair?  Her  daughter  knew  how  superbly  she  would  rise 
and  sweep  her  reverence  to  the  Minister.  How  smoothly 
she  would  pour  forth  some  false  and  specious  tale.  .  .  . 

The  Minister  strode  in  upon  Madame,  carrying  his  cap 

and  riding- whip.    His  heavy  countenance  had  the  healthier 

.'  flush  of  exercise,  his  great  spurred  boots  were  plastered 


THE    MAN    OF.   IRON  609 

with  clayey  mud.  He  had  but  just  returned  from  an  early 
ride  with  Count  Hatzfeldt,  taken  at  this  hour  "To  escape," 
as  he  had  explained  to  that  elegant  functionary,  "the 
detestable  clattering  and  knocking  of  that  female  Kobold, 
whose  day  it  is  to  sweep  my  room. ' ' 

"Why  let  her  sweep?"  Hatzfeldt  had  asked,  and  his 
principal  had  answered : 

"I  approve  domestic  cleanliness.  And  a  room  that  is 
used  as  bedroom  and  study  somehow  harbors  both  spiders 
and  dust.  And  I  abhor  spiders — nearly  as  much  as  cock- 
roaches. Those  long-waisted  insects  that  swarm  in  the 
conservatory  here  give  me  almost  a  sensation  of  sickness 
when  they  scuttle  away  from  my  boots.  I  find  a  physical 
relief,  actually,  in  crushing  them." 

He  experienced  something  of  that  nausea  and  its  result, 
ing  impulse  toward  extermination,  meeting  the  bold  eyes 
and  the  false  ingratiating  smile  of  the  still  beautiful  Ade- 
laide. He  said,  standing  huge  and  adamantine  between 
the  woman  and  the  window: 

' '  Be  seated,  Madame.  .  .  .  No  .  .  .  not  that  chair !  Pos- 
sibly I  grow  old,  but  I  find  that  I  can  best  deal  with  cer- 
tain persons  when  the  morning  light  is  on  their  faces." 

' '  As  you  will,  Monseigneur ! ' ' 

Adelaide  mentally  execrated  his  coarse  brutality  as  she 
bit  her  lip,  pulled  down  her  flowered  veil  more  closely,  and 
prepared  to  sink  into  the  little  wicker  chair. 

"No!"  he  said,  stopping  her,  "not  that  chair! — take 
the  other.  To  my  idea  the  seat  you  at  first  selected  repre- 
sents at  present  the  Throne  of  France,  or  at  least  the  Presi- 
dential fauteuil.  M.  Thiers  occupies  it  when  he  comes  to 
see  me.  .  .  .  And  he  is  a  person  whom  I  hold  in  much 
respect. ' ' 

She  winced  at  the  side-thrust. 

"I  regret,  Monseigneur,  to  have  forfeited  your  good 
opinion. ' ' 

"  I  do  not  usually  bestow  my  good  opinion, ' '  he  told  her, 
"upon  ladies  of  your  reputation,  even  though  I  may  have 
reason  to  praise  their  sharp  wits.  Now  pray  state  your 
business  here.  My  time  is  limited." 

She  half  rose  up  with  a  pained  stare  of  wounded  feeling, 
thought  better  of  it,  sank  down  again  amidst  her  velvets 
and  sables,  and  recited  her  lesson  as  taught  by  Straz. 

The  Roumanian,  by  dint  of  diligent,  patient  inquiry, 


610  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

had  collected  and  pieced  together  with  marvelous  clever- 
ness, the  information  gathered,  correlative  to  the  move- 
ments of  Juliette.  Her  departure  from  the  Prefecture  at 
Kethel,  her  frustrated  journey  to  the  Camp  at  Chatel  St. 
Germain — her  halt  at  the  village  of  Petit  Plappeville,  her 
search  for  the  Colonel  upon  the  battlefield,  were  all  pieces 
in  a  mosaic  miraculously  restored.  M.  de  Straz  knew  that 
Count  Bismarck  had  seen  and  spoken  to  the  young  lady — 
had  ordered  separate  burial  for  the  body  of  de  Bayard. 
He  could  even  name  a  soldier  of  the  German  burial-party, 
who  had  helped  to  dig  the  grave.  Subsequently  Made- 
moiselle had  been  seen  in  company  with  a  young  English- 
man .  .  .  she  had  returned  with  him  to  Petit  Plappeville. 
The  village  had  been  raided  and  sacked  by  Prussian  cavalry. 
Since  when,  Mademoiselle,  with  the  young  Englishman, 
had  returned  to  Versailles.  .  .  .  She  was  occupying  the 
Tessier  mansion  up  to  the  moment  of  the  arrival  of  the 
Chancellor  with  his  Foreign  Office  Staff.  And — by  a  most 
curious  and  deplorable  coincidence,  from  that  psychological 
moment  to  the  present,  all  trace  of  Mademoiselle  had  been 
lost.  .  .  . 

' '  Consequently, ' '  Adelaide  wound  up  her  well-conned  les- 
son, "myself  and  M.  de  Straz  have  no  resource  but  to  apply 
to  Your  Excellency.  Naturally  M.  de  Straz  desires  that 
the  daughter  of  M.  de  Bayard  and  myself  should  be  extri- 
cated from  a  compromising  position  and  placed  under  our 
joint  guardianship.  He  takes — such  chivalry  is  innate  in 
his  nature — a  parental  interest  in  the  poor  young  girl ! ' ' 
Said  the  Minister,  smiling  with  cynical  amusement: 
"Therefore  in  the  interests  of  Chivalry  and  Morality — 
you  call  on  me — as  proprietor  of  the  seraglio  in  which  you 
suppose  Mademoiselle  to  have  been  hidden  away.  .  .  .  You 
demand" — he  struck  the  riding-glove  he  had  removed  upon 
the  palm  of  the  right  hand  it  had  covered — "and  the  hint 
of  such  a  demand  is  a  menace — do  you  hear  ? — a  menace — 
that  I  should  render  the  girl  up  to  you,  or  pay  through 
the  nose  for  what  I  once  declined  to  buy.  You  think  at 
this  epoch  in  the  history  of  Germany — when  the  search-ray 
of  international  interest  is  turned  upon  the  doings  of  that 
fellow  Bismarck  at  Versailles — that  I  should  not  care  to  be 
classed  with  the  Minotaurs  who  devoured  youths  and  vir- 
gins. Madame,  they  were  French  monarchs,  I  am  only  a 
Pomeranian  squire.  .  .  . " 


THE    MAN    OF,   IRON  611 

He  rose  up,  towering  over  the  quaking  woman,  and 
strode  across  the  shaking  floor  and  pulled  the  green  silk 
bell-rope  by  the  fireplace.  It  came  down  in  his  hand,  top 
ornament,  wire  and  all,  and  he  said  as  he  looked  at  it  and 
tossed  it  from  him: 

' '  That  is  a  suggestion  on  the  part  of  your  Fate  which  I 
shall  not  adopt,  though  I  could  hang  you  and  your  para- 
mour. ..." 

He  added,  speaking  loudly  as  Von  Keudell  opened  the 
door,  and  the  wretched  woman  rose  and  tottered  toward 
him: 

"Did  I  hold  the  secret  of  your  daughter's  hiding-place, 
I  would  not  betray  her  to  you.  .  .  .  Adieu,  Madame  de 
Bayard.  .  .  .  You  observe  that  I  do  not  add,  'and  au 
revoir!'  " 

.  The  great  resonant  voice  had  sounded  through  the  whole 
house  like  a  beaten  war-gong.  Lying  upon  the  floor  of 
her  room,  straining  her  ears  to  catch  some  fragments  of 
their  colloquy,  it  broke  over  Juliette  in  waves  of  thunderous 
sound. 

Jean  Jacques,  below  in  the  hall,  was  told  by  Von  Keudell 
to  "see  the  lady  to  her  carriage,"  which,  in  virtue  of  her 
appointment,  had  been  admitted  through  the  Tessier  porte- 
cochere.  The  Swiss  youth  obeyed  with  even  a  clumsier 
grace  than  usual,  the  polishing-brush  being  still  strapped 
about  one  instep,  and  the  clout  still  swathed  about  the  other 
foot,  as  he  hobbled  down  the  shallow  doorsteps  to  open  the 
brougham-door  for  Madame.  As  she  stepped  in  and  took 
the  seat,  her  strained  eyes  leaped  at  his  face  suddenly. 
As  he  leaned  in  arranging  the  rug  about  her  knees — what 
was  it  he  heard  her  say : 

"You  are  the  English  boy  I  saw  in  July  at  the  house  of 
M.  de  Bismarck.  Do  not  attempt  to  deny ;  I  never  forget 
a  face!  When  can  you  come  and  see  me?  ...  I  must 
speak  to  you!  I  swear  to  you  that  I  mean  no  harm  to 
Mademoiselle  Juliette  de  Bayard!" 

Her  lips  were  ashen  under  their  rose-salve.  The  ringed, 
bare  hand  she  laid  on  his  rough  paw  burned  like  fire.  He 
muttered  in  the  weird  patois  that  passed  as  Swiss  with 
some  German  occupants  of  the  Tessier  mansion: 

' '  Madame  will  pardon.  .  .  .  One  does  not  understand ! ' ' 

She  gave  a  disjointed,  unmusical  peal  of  laughter,  that 
rattled  the  brougham  windows. 


612 

"Droll  boy!  But  you  will  come,  whether  you  under- 
stand or  not.  The  Villa  Laon,  Maisons  Laffitte,  near  St. 
Germain.  .  .  .  Night-time  will  be  best — to-night  or  to- 
morrow night."  She  added,  looking  at  him  over  the 
lowered  window  as  he  shut  the  door  upon  her:  "Ask  for 
Madame  de  Straz.  I  shall  be  waiting  for  you.  Do  not 
forget!  ..." 

The  carriage  drove  on.  He  stood  upon  the  lowest  door- 
step staring  after  it,  for  only  privileged  vehicles  were 
admitted  by  the  porte-cochere.  A  hand  fell  heavily  on  his 
shoulder,  startling  him  hideously.  A  terrible  grating 
voice  said  in  his  ear,  speaking  in  the  Minister's  excellent 
English : 

"So,  Madame  Delilah  has  been  trying  her  sorceries,  has 
she?  Come  this  way,  my  young  English  friend.  ...  I 
want  two  words  with  you ! ' ' 


LXXI 

IN  the  Tessier  drawing-room,  where  the  carpet  was  thread- 
bare with  the  traffic  of  the  feet  of  Princes  and  plenipoten- 
tiaries, and  the  brocade  furniture  was  soiled  with  the  con- 
tact of  muddy  breeches,  and  ragged  with  the  rowels  of 
spurs;  where  the  bronze,  bat- winged  figure  presided  over 
the  ancient  clock  of  ormolu  and  malachite  that  had  marked 
the  passing  of  so  many  hours  in  this  the  death-struggle  of 
bleeding  France,  Jean  Jacques  Potier  stood  up  to  give  an 
account  of  himself,  while  just  without  the  doorway  waited 
a  brace  of  muscular  Chancery  attendants,  and  the  gigantic 
East  Prussian  coachman,  Niederstedt,  patrolled  the  ter- 
race outside. 

"You  have  not  forgotten  him!  He  used  you  somewhat 
roughly  at  the  Foreign  Office  in  the  Wilhelm  Strasse.  Nor, 
as  it  happens,  has  he  forgotten  you.  Come! — what  have 
you  admitted  to  that  "Witch  of  Endor,  la  veuve  Bayard? 
You  are  no  friend  to  her  daughter  if  you  have  told  the 
woman  that  Mademoiselle  is  here,  under  this  roof. ' ' 

"So  you— know?  .  .  ." 

P.  C.  Breagh  had  gasped  the  words  out  before  he  could 
stop  himself.  The  Minister's  flashing  blue  eyes  lightened 
in  laughter  as  they  met  the  appalled  stare  of  the  young 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  613 

man  with  the  cropped  head  and  the  green  baize  apron. 
He  said,  lisping  a  little  as  was  his  wont: 

"I  know,  and  I  have  known  almost  from  the  beginning. 
Everything  must  be  known  in  this  house.  Did  you  suppose 
I  had  left  my  Prussian  Secret  Service  at  home  in  Berlin? 
Here !  This  belongs  to  you ! ' ' 

He  was  standing  on  the  hearth,  his  great  back  to  the 
wood  fire  that  blazed  on  the  steel  dogs.  One  of  a  brace  of 
letters  that  he  pulled  from  his  breeches  pocket,  and  tossed 
to  the  culprit  under  examination,  fell  at  that  wretch's  feet. 

"Pick  it  up,  Mr.  Patrick  Carolan  Breagh,"  he  said. 
"You  will  find  it  a  more-than-ordinarily  interesting  epistle. 
It  was  brought  me  something  over  an  hour  ago.  Your 
legal  friend,  Mr.  Chown,  of  Furnival's  Inn,  Holborn,  Lon- 
don, advises  you  to  go  back  there  without  procrastination. 
Your  absconding  trustee,  Mr.  William  Mustey,  Junior,  has 
been  found  in  Bloomsbury  lodgings,  the  "War  having  ap- 
parently frightened  him  out  of  France.  Odd,  because  the 
scent  of  battlefields  proves  attractive  to  birds  and  animals 
of  the  predatory  order.  Mustey  is  dead,  but  luckily  for 
you  he  has  left  nearly  all  of  your  property  behind  him. 
Some  £500  of  your  inheritance  of  £7,000  seems  to  be  miss- 
ing. I  daresay  you  will  be  willing  to  let  the  deficit  go. 
What  are  you  saying  ? ' ' 

His  victim,  with  lips  screwed  into  the  shape  of  a  whistle, 
had  murmured : 

" The  Post  Office.  .  .  .  Gee-whillikins !  .  .  .  they've  given 
me  away!  ..." 

"Given  you  away!  .  .  .  You  are  a  pretty  conspirator!" 
The  masterful  eyes  flickered  with  humor.  There  was 
amusement,  suppressed,  but  evident,  in  the  lines  about  the 
grim  mouth  hidden  by  the  martial  mustache.  "Where 
should  my  blue  Prussian  bees  gather  intelligence,  if  not  at 
the  Post  Office?  Did  you  not  give  yourself  away,  as  you 
term  it,  when  you  employed  the  time  not  occupied  in 
smearing  silver  plate  with  whitening,  and  bedaubing  pol- 
ished boards  most  execrably  with  beeswax, — in  acting  as 
a  voluntary  assistant  dresser  at  the  auxiliary  Military  Hos- 
pital that  has  been  established  under  the  Red  Cross  at  the 
Convent  of  the  Sisters  of  the  Poor  ?  When  a  young  Swiss 
— who  is  supposed  to  be  ignorant  of  any  language  save  his 
own  extraordinary  gibberish — betrays  a  more  than  super- 
ficial knowledge  of  French  and  German  surgical  terminol- 


614  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

ogy,  and  evinces  a  degree  of  skill  in  bandaging  and  so 
forth,  such  as  you  have  permitted  yourself  to  display,  the 
German  authorities,  while  they  avail  themselves  of  the 
young  gentleman's  service,  are  to  be  pardoned  for  suppos- 
ing him  to  be  other  than  he  appears !  Come,  it  is  time  this 
farce  of  yours  and  Mademoiselle's  ended.  I  am  going  to 
ring  the  bell,  and  send  for  her,  and  tell  her  so  now!  ..." 
The  imperious  hand  went  out  to  the  bell-rope  of  faded  red, 
and  he  stayed  his  summons  to  add:  "Then  you  and  she 
must  pack  up  and  betake  yourselves  to  England.  ...  I 
will  furnish  you  with  a  permit  to  travel  by  railway  and  a 
laissez-passer.  You  will  return  to  me  a  certain  half-sheet 
of  Chancellery  notepaper  which  I  gave  you  in  the  Wilhelm 
Strasse  last  July!  Further — I  have  no  advice  to  give  you 
except  that  you  would  be  wise  not  to  select  the  theatrical 
profession  for  your  next  venture.  You  have  not  a  gift  for 
the  stage,  unlike  Mademoiselle.  .  .  .  As  for  her,  the  vixen ! 
you  would  do  well  to  marry  her  promptly.  Nothing  else 
will  cure  a  young  man  of  the  stupidity  of  being  in  lovel" 

There  was  something  horrible  in  the  mere  fact  of  being 
taken  so  lightly,  when  one  had  waited  in  tense  agony  for 
the  ominous  flurry  in  the  daytime — expecting  in  sleepless 
anguish  the  cry  in  the  night.  .  .  .  The  relief  that  mingled 
with  the  horror  caused  the  muscles  of  the  mouth  to  relax 
in  a  smile  of  imbecility,  made  one  stutter  and  gulp  because 
of  the  choking  in  one 's  throat.  .  .  . 

The  life  of  this  man,  who  was  meant  when  the  great  ones 
of  the  earth  now  referred  to  Germany,  had  been  in  hourly 
peril  for  months  past.  Now  it  was  safe.  She  had  not  bent 
one's  will,  ineffectually,  to  the  effort  of  restraining  an- 
other's. One  had  not  kept  watch  and  put  in  one's  word 
for  nothing,  remembering  the  debt  one  owed  to  that  power- 
ful ruthless  hand.  Not  unheard  had  one  prayed  in  an 
anguish  of  supplication  that  the  woman  loved  beyond  all 
Ideals,  however  heroic  and  overwhelming,  might  be  saved 
from  the  fate  of  occupying  a  red-stained  niche  in  History. 

' '  Marry  her  promptly ! ' ' 

He  repeated  the  words,  with  the  flicker  of  a  laugh  play- 
ing in  his  eyes  and  about  his  heavy  facial  muscles.  His 
tortured  victim,  blood-red  to  his  cropped  scalp,  groaned 
out: 

"She  is  married  already,  Sir!" 

"Quatsch!"  said  the  Minister,  laughing:    "Married  she 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  615 

is  not.  Oh,  she  has  been  married  as  the  American  canvas- 
back  ducks  are  roasted.  She  has  been  carried  on  a  dish 
through  the  kitchen  of  matrimony,  and  taken  out  at  the 
opposite  door." 

"But — my  God,  sir! — I  have  seen  her  husband!"  cried 
the  young  man  desperately. 

''When  did  you  see  him?"  asked  the  resonant,  com- 
pelling accents.  The  answer  came,  bringing  down  his 
frown. 

' '  I — cannot  tell  you ! ' ' 

Came,  curiously  lisped,  the  words : 

"I  fear  I  must  compel  you.  All  this  may  lead  to  some- 
thing more  serious  than  I  have  thought.  ..." 

P.  C.  Breagh  snarled,  knitting  the  broad  red  eyebrows  so 
industriously  sooted: 

"Twice.  .  .  .  There  can  be  no  harm  in  my  saying  so." 

"And  how  recently?"  The  grating  voice  scooped  into 
one's  brain  like  a  dentist's  burred  scraper.  P.  C.  Breagh 
shook  his  head,  saying: 

"I  can't  tell  you  that!" 

"Why  not,  if  there  is  no  harm  in  telling?"  The  voice 
was  almost  pleasant.  "Was  it  as  recently  as  three  days 
ago?" 

No  answer. 

"Was  it  as  recently  as  two  days?  ...  as  twenty-four 
hours?  .  .  .  Will  you  not  answer  for  your  own  sake?" 

The  stubborn  head  was  shaken  resolutely.  The  Minis- 
ter's voice  said,  blandly,  persuasively: 

"You  may,  for  all  you  know,  be  answering  for  hers!" 

There  was  a  stubborn  silence.  The  Chancellor  said, 
with  his  suave,  but  warning  lisp  more  perceptible  than 
usual: 

"Be  good  enough  to  touch  that  bell  upon  the  table  near 
your  hand.  ..." 

P.  C.  Breagh  obliged.  Grams  and  Engelberg  presented 
themselves.  The  Minister  said,  looking  at  them  over  the 
head  of  his  sacrifice: 

"One  of  you  will  convey  my  compliments  to  Madame 
Charles  Tessier,  and  request  her  to  speak  to  me  here  and 
now. ' ' 

The  stalwart,  black-clad  pair  retired.  The  Minister 
pulled  his  cigar-case  from  his  breeches-pocket,  selected  a 
cigar,  bit  off  the  end,  and  looked  for  a  match.  Meeting 


616  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

the  burning  stare  of  the  gray-yellow  eyes  under  the  broad 
sooted  eyebrows,  he  did  not  fulfill  his  intention  of  lighting, 
but  restored  the  cigar  to  its  place. 

As  he  thrust  the  case  back  into  his  breeches-pocket  the 
door  opened.  Madame  Charles  came  in,  wrapped  in  her 
white  shawl,  and  moving  with  her  characteristic  limp  and 
shuffle.  Her  glance  went  to  the  broad-shouldered,  lean- 
flanked  figure  of  the  young  man  standing  at  attention  a 
little  to  the  left  hand  of  the  Minister.  She  was  aware  of 
the  huge  shape  of  the  watchful  Niederstedt  keeping  guard 
outside  the  terrace-windows.  She  heard  the  steady  crunch- 
ing of  booted  feet  upon  the  graveled  stone  flags  of  the 
conservatory,  recalling  the  fact  that  the  two  officers  of  the 
guard  of  Green  Jaegers  were  now  quartered  there.  And 
she  said  to  herself,  even  as  she  made  her  curtsey  before  the 
Chancellor :  ' '  The  hour  of  discovery  has  come.  Am  I  sorry 
or  glad?" 

The  heavy  stare  met  her  desperate  eyes  as  she  raised 
them  from  the  carpet.  The  grim  voice  began,  and  she 
strung  her  nerves  to  hear: 

"Mademoiselle  de  Bayard,  I  have  just  closed  an  inter- 
view with  your  lady-mother,  who  is  desirous  to  reestablish 
over  your  person  the  maternal  authority  she  once  resigned. 
.  .  .  That  I  have  not  betrayed  to  her  your  presence  here 
I  think  you  are  aware  already.  I  had  a  pretty  shrewd 
suspicion  that  you  were  listening  when  I  spoke  to  her 
loudly  just  now  upon  the  stairs.  Am  I  right,  Mademoi- 
selle?" 

She  said,  meeting  his  heavy,  powerful  stare  with  eyes  of 
burning  sapphire,  steadily  under  leveled  brows  of  jetty 
black : 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  contradict  a  person  of  Monseigneur's 
eminence.  Might  I  ask  why  Monseigneur  is  pleased  to 
designate  me  as  'Mademoiselle'?  Madame  Charles  Tessier 
is  my  name  in  this  house." 

"Mademoiselle  de  Bayard,"  he  said,  ignoring  the  inter- 
ruption as  a  man  may  when  an  infant  has  tugged  him  by 
the  coat-tail,  "I  have  to  congratulate  you  upon  your  gift 
of  grotesque  character-impersonation,  no  less  than  your 
companion,  whose  Swiss-French  patois,  spoken  with  a 
British  accent,  has  never  since  the  first  instant  succeeded 
in  deceiving  me.  But  as  one  of  my  more  amiable  weak- 
nesses is  a  liking  for  children,  I  must  own  to  having  found 


THE    MAN    OF   IROX  6IT 

infinite  amusement  in  the  spectacle  of  Missy  and  Master, 
dressed  up  for  grandpapa's  benefit,  playing  the  game  of 
'Guess  Who  I  Am!'  ..." 

He  was  laughing  now,  unmistakably.  He  said,  smooth- 
ing the  heavy  mustache  with  a  hand  that  twitched  a  little : 

"But  the  performance  ends  here.  So  we  may  lay  aside 
the  cosmetics,  costumes,  and  properties.  The  hero's  green 
baize  apron,  crop-wig,  and  blackened  eyebrows,  the  flour 
with  which  the  heroine  sprinkles  her  black  hair,  and  the 
stockings  and  towels  with  which  she  disguises  her  charming 
shape.  It  will  not  seem  surprising  to  you  that  a  person 
of  my  dubious  character  should  be  learned  in  the  secrets 
of  stage  disguises.  .  .  .  My  early  researches  in  femininity 
have  led  me  into  queerer  places  than  actresses'  dressing- 
rooms.  But  where  did  a  Convent  schoolgirl  gain  her 
knowledge  of  make-up  ? ' ' 

His  mockery  was  intolerable.  Her  hate  and  scorn  rose 
up  in  arms  to  meet  it.  She  would  be  silent  only  for  an 
instant  longer,  then  she  would  speak  and  tell  him  all. 

He  was  going  on: 

"I  have  here  a  letter,  brought  me  some  days  back  by 
the  Prussian  official  who  is  in  charge  at  the  General  Post 
Office  here  in  Versailles.  It  is  addressed  to  Mademoiselle 
Juliette  de  Bayard,  120,  Eue  de  Provence.  It  is  dated* 
from  Mons-sur-Trouille,  in  Belgium,  and  is  written  and 
signed  by  M.  Charles  Tessier.  ...  I  will  not  disguise  from 
you  that  I  have  mastered  the  contents." 

He  showed  her  the  letter.  Monster!  he  had  opened  it. 
Her  blazing  eyes  dwelt  on  him  with  a  contempt  he  did  not 
seem  to  feel.  She  had  let  the  white  shawl  drop  from  about 
her  head  and  shoulders.  Now  she  straightened  her  slight 
form — (as  though  an  artist  needed  the  adventitious  aid  of 
towels  and  stockings!) — and  thrust  back  with  a  superb 
gesture  of  both  hands  the  heavy  loops  of  white-streaked 
hair  that  masked  her  forehead  and  curtained  her  small 
face,  whose  cheeks,  previously  pale,  now  burned  with 
angry  fire. 

He  said,  and  as  he  withdrew  the  letter  from  its  envelope* 
a  small,  square  enclosure  wrapped  in  white  paper,  slipped 
from  the  interior  and  dropped  near  his  spurred  boot : 

"I  have  not  only  read  this,  but  I  am  going  to  read  it 
aloud  to  you.  For  the  sake  of  one  present  whose  fidelity  to 
you  deserved  a  confidence  you  seem  to  have  withheld." 


618  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

She  caught  one  sharp  breath,  dropped  her  slender  arms 
at  her  sides  and  stood  immovably  before  him.  Her  clenched 
hands,  tense  lips  and  tragic  brows,  with  that  fierce  flame  of 
hatred  and  scorn  burning  beneath  their  shadow,  betrayed 
the  test  of  her  self-command  as  he  read : 

"BASSELOT    &    TESSIEE. 

"WHOLESALE    MERCHANTS, 
"WEAVERS  AND  DYEBS  OF  WOOLEN  FABRICS. 


' '  MONS-SUR-TROUILLE, 

' '  BELGIUM. 

"December  20,  1870. 

"MADEMOISELLE: 

"Relying  on  your  good  sense  and  amiability,  permit  me 
to  make  you  a  confession. 

"Torn  between  the  urgent  commands  of  filial  duty,  and 
the  dictates  of  ardent  affection,  I  have  yielded  to  the  irre- 
sistible promptings  of  Love. 

"Wedded  to  her  I  adore — the  name  of  Mademoiselle 
Clemence  Basselot  can  hardly  be  strange  to  you — I  offer 
you  the  calm  devotion  of  a  brother.  My  mother  is  resigned 
to  this  alliance,  at  one  time  repugnant  to  her  maternal 
feelings.  She  desires  me  to  say  that  your  luggage,  taken 
on  by  her  from  the  Hotel  de  Flandre,  Brussels,  shall  be 
forwarded  to  you  at  the  Rue  de  Provence,  or  any  other 
destination  you  may  choose  to  indicate.  Need  I  say  that 
Madame  Charles  Tessier  and  myself  regard  you  as  our 
benefactress — that  you  will  confer  upon  us  the  greatest 
obligation  by  consenting  to  remain  beneath  our  roof. 

"I  would  add  that  the  capital  of  80,000  francs  invested 
by  your  regretted  father  upon  your  behalf  in  the  business 
of  myself  and  M.  Basselot  can  remain  at  the  interest  it  at 
present  commands  (some  7  per  cent,  of  annual  profit),  or 
be  transferred  to  your  credit  at  any  agents  or  bankers  you 
may  choose  to  designate. 

"Receive,  dear  Mademoiselle,  with  my  regrets  and  ex- 
cuses, the  affectionate  souvenirs  of  myself  and  my  wife. 
My  Clemence  encloses  some  wedding-cake,  after  the  touch- 
ing fashion  of  England.  She  made  it,  she  assures  me,  with 
her  own  hands. 

"Respectfully  and  sincerely, 
' '  CHARLES  JOSEPH  TESSIER.  ' ' 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  619 

The  reader  added,  as  he  looked  about  him: 

"Where  is  the  wedding-cake? — that  white  thing!  .  .  . 
thank  you ! ' ' 

For  P.  C.  Breagh  had  picked  the  little  parcel  up  and 
restored  it  to  his  hand.  He  took  it,  returned  it  to  the 
envelope  with  the  letter,  and  said  with  unsmiling  gravity, 
striking  a  finger  on  the  envelope : 

"In  the  face  of  this — are  you  married,  Mademoiselle?" 

She  answered  him  dauntlessly: 

"No,  Monseigneur ! " 

"Th-then,"  he  asked,  with  his  portentous  lisp,  "wh-why 
on  earth  did  you — did  you  pretend  to  be?" 

She  answered  with  surprising  quietude : 

"To  make  my  place  in  this  house  more  secure." 

"  Ah !    Might  one  ask  why  ? ' ' 

He  put  the  question  with  irony.  She  answered  with 
astonishing  composure  and  dignity: 

"Because  at  that  period  I  desired  to  gain  the  oppor- 
tunity to — kill  you,  Monseigneur!" 

A  sound  came  from  Breagh 's  throat  like  a  curse  or  a 
groan  or  a  sob,  or  all  together.  Her  clear  gaze  was  troubled 
for  a  moment,  she  caught  her  breath  in  a  fluttering  sigh. 

* '  To  kill  me  ?  .  .  . "  said  the  resonant  voice  of  the  great 
figure  that  upreared  its  bulk  before  the  dancing  hearth- 
blaze  that  threw  broad  lights  and  shadows  upon  the  ceiling 
and  walls  of  the  darkly-papered  drawing-room.  It  was  a 
bitter,  wintry  day  of  sickly  white  sunshine,  and  smileless 
skies  of  leaden  grayness.  Freezing  sleet-drops  rattled  on 
the  terrace-windows,  outside  which  the  giant  ex-porter  of 
the  Wilhelm  Strasse  waited,  blowing  from  time  to  time 
upon  his  chilly  knuckles  and  beating  his  great  arms  upon 
his  vast  chest  to  keep  them  warm,  but  never  removing  the 
sharp  little  piggish  eyes  under  his  low  red  forehead  from 
the  figure  of  P.  C.  Breagh.  .  .  . 

' '  To  kill  me ! "  said  the  Chancellor,  as  a  springing  hearth- 
flame  threw  a  giant  shadow  of  him  upon  the  double  doors 
that  divided  the  drawing-room  from  the  billiard-room, 
where  the  staff  of  clerks  and  decipherers  labored  from  early 
morning  until  far  into  the  night. 

In  the  silence  that  his  voice  had  broken,  his  keen  ear 
heard  a  quill  pen  buck  upon"  a  page.  He  imagined  the 
splash  of  ink  upon  the  thick  creamy  Chancellery  paper, 
that  had  evoked  the  "Tsch!"  of  the  dismayed  clerk,  even 


620  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

as  he  queried :    ' '  Might  I  ask  why  ?    It  would  be  interesting 
to  know." 

The  firelight  was  full  upon  Juliette  as  she  answered: 
' '  Because  you  have  made  this  War ; — because  through  it 
I  have  been  orphaned  and  made  desolate;  but  chiefly  be- 
cause you  are  the  merciless  enemy  of  France.  These  mil- 
liards you  would  wring  from  her  veins  .  .  .  these  groans 
torn  from  her  heart  .  .  .  these  indignities  to  all  she  holds 
most  sacred !  .  .  .  Your  scorn  and  contempt  of  these  great 
men — Chiefs  of  her  Government — who  have  stooped  to  beg 
from  you  consideration  .  .  .  for  these  things,  see  you  well 
— you  have  been  accursed  in  my  eyes.  I  have  said  to 
myself  a  thousand  times,  that  to  kill  you  would  be  to  save 
my  country,  and  not  a  sin  unpardonable  in  the  eyes  of 
Almighty  God!  ..." 

"Your  theology  is  as  defective,"  said  the  Chancellor, 
"as  your  sentiments  are  patriotic.  ..."  He  surveyed  the 
small  slight  figure  before  him  rather  ogreishly  from  under 
his  shaggy  brows.  "And  so,"  he  said,  with  his  wounding 
irony,  "you  thought  to  play  the  part  of  a  Judith  to  my 
Holof ernes — a  little  skip  o'  my  thumb  like  you.  .  .  .  My 
good  young  lady,  had  you  succeeded  in  murdering  me,  how 
was  it  your  intention  to  evade  summary  justice  ?  For  you 
could  not  have  escaped  detection.  .  .  .  You  must  be  aware 
of  that!" 

She  said  with  her  quiet  dignity,  one  hand  upon  her  slight 
bosom,  her  clear  eyes  upon  the  angry,  powerful  stare  that 
would  have  crushed  another  woman  down: 

"I  should  not  have  tried  to  escape,  Monseigneur ! " 
He  commented  sarcastically: 

"Fanatics  are  the  most  dangerous  of  conspirators.  Life 
has  no  value — Death  has  no  terrors  for  them.  They  believe 
themselves  superior  to  all  laws,  both  human  and  Divine. 
And  how,  may  one  ask,  would  you  have  done  my  business  ? 
To  have  dispatched  me  by  poison  would  have  been  easiest, 
for  you  have  assisted  our  Foreign  Office  cook.  Yes !  Pos- 
sibly it  would  have  been  poison?" 

She  said  between  her  close-set  teeth,  hissingly : 
"It  should,  Monseigneur,  but  for  one  thing!  ..." 
His  powerful  glance  rested  on  her  curiously: 
"Ah,  Fury!"  he  said,  and  with  her  wild  black  disheveled 
locks,  her  eyes  that  darted  vengeful  blue  fire,  the  gloomy 
brows    that    frowned    over    them,    the    long    upper    lip 


THE    MAN   OF   IRON  621 

pinched  down  over  the  little  closely-set  white  teeth,  hers 
was  not  unlike  the  mask  of  a  Medusa,  wrought  in  onyx 
by  the  hand  of  some  Greek  master  dead  a  thousand  years 
ago. 

"Ah,  Fury! — and  what  was  that  one  thing?  To  what 
fortunate  breakage  of  pots  in  the  kitchen  will  the  Prussian 
King  owe  it  that  he  has  still  a  Chancellor,  when  he  is 
crowned  Emperor  of  Germany  in  the  Palace  of  Versailles 
at  the  beginning  of  the  New  Year  ? ' ' 

Here  was  news.  So  the  recalcitrant  States  had  at  last 
been  ringed  in.  So  the  sensitive  objections  of  His  Majesty 
the  King  of  Bavaria  had  been  by  some  means  overcome.  .  .  . 
P.  C.  Breagh  drew  a  sharp  breath  at  the  hearing.  The 
speaker  flashed  upon  him  a  cynical  look. 

"There,"  he  said,  "is  a  tit-bit  for  some  enterprising 
Editor,  were  it  possible  to  get  a  wire  through  to  Fleet 
Street.  You  see  what  comes,  Mr.  Breagh,  of  being  false 
to  one's  principles.  A  few  months  ago  you  said  to  me — 
I  have  an  excellent  memory  for  such  utterances :  'It  would 
Toe  better  to  caxL^z  in  the  dustbins  for  a  living  than  make 
money  out  of  information  gained  by  trickery.'  Yet  you 
have  not  scrupled  to  live  in  this  house  disguised  as  a  com- 
mon servant.  Eeally,  to  one  who  is  aware  of  your  ambi- 
tions, the  whole  thing  has — a  kind  of  stink ! ' ' 

The  prodded  victim  uttered  an  incoherent  exclamation. 
Juliette  cried  indignantly: 

"It  is  not  true !  How  can  you  wrong  him  so ?  If  you 
do  not  know  what  you  owe  to  him,  I  will  tell  you.  It  is  he 
who  has  saved  your  life!" 

She  flamed  out  all  at  once  into  a  rage  and  cried,  seeming 
to  tower  to  twice  her  stature : 

' '  Because  you  have  robbed  me  of  my  father,  and  because 
you  are  the  great  enemy  of  France  I  would  have  killed  you. 
I  tried  to  hide  this  from  him,  and  he  found  it  out.  He 
stayed  here — at  what  risk  you  know! — for  my  sake  and 
for  your  sake.  .  .  .  How  often  has  he  not  said  to  me :  'You 
shall  not  do  it.  He  once  saved  me!  ...  You  shall  not 
do  it  because  he  has  a  daughter,  by  whom  he  is  beloved, 
perhaps,  as  your  father  was  by  you!  .  .  .  You  tell  me 
that  her  portrait  stands  by  his  bedside.  Go  and  look  at 
it,  and  you  will  never  be  able  to  do  this  hideous  thing!' 
And  I  went  and  looked  at  her  portrait,  and  it  was  as  he 
had  told  me.  .  .  .  That  night  I  threw  away  the  poison  and 


622  THE    MAN    OF   IRON 

swore  an  oath  upon  the  Crucifix,  that,  come  what  might, 
I  would  never  seek  your  life!  ..." 

"Halt,  there!"  he  bade  her,  in  his  rough,  masterful 
manner.  "Touch  that  bell  upon  the  table  near  you!"  he 
said  to  Breagh.  As  Breagh  obeyed  and  von  Keudell  en- 
tered by  the  door  leading  from  the  hall,  shutting  it  upon  a 
glimpse  of  the  stalwart  Grams  and  the  athletic  Engelberg, 
"Fetch  me  that  bottle,"  he  said,  "that  was  picked  up  by 
the  sentry  in  the  adjoining  garden.  I  gave  it  to  you  to 
lock  away  for  me. ' ' 

Von  Keudell  vanished.  In  the  interval  that  elapsed 
before  his  reentrance  the  Minister  turned  his  back  upon 
Mademoiselle  and  her  comrade,  rested  a  hand  upon  the 
mantelshelf,  and  said,  as  he  kicked  back  a  burning  billet 
that  had  tumbled  out  of  the  heart  of  the  red  fire : 

"All  that  about  my  daughter's  portrait  is  quatschl" 
He  suddenly  wheeled  upon  Mademoiselle,  thundering: 
"You  were  frightened.  That  is  why  you  seized  an  oppor- 
tunity to  pitch  away  your  witches'  sauce.  .  .  .  Confess! 
Be  candid !  Have  I  not  read  you  ?  Were  not  your  fine 
heroic  frenzies  all  assumed  to  impress — him?"  He  indi- 
cated P.  C.  Breagh  by  an  overhand  thumb-gesture.  ""Was 
it  not  for  this  spoony  fellow's  benefit  you  wrote  yourself 
letters  from  an  imaginary  Franc-tireur — full  of  bombastic 
vaporings  and  bloodthirsty  denunciations  borrowed  from 
the  columns  of  Parisian  rags  ? ' ' 

"Monseigneur!  ..." 

She  was  taken  aback.  She  faltered,  flushed,  whitened, 
conscious  of  the  reproachful  stare  of  Breagh 's  honest  gray 
eyes. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you? — everything  is  known  to  me!  .  .  . 
Not  only  have  I  read  those  letters  you  hid  in  the  mouth  of 
that  grinning  Pan  in  the  garden — but  here  is  the  bottle 
you  threw  away!  ..." 

He  took  it  from  von  Keudell  and  showed  it  her — a  squat, 
wide-mouthed  chemist's  ounce  vial,  half  full  of  whitish 
powder,  and  read  from  the  label : 

"ARSENIC:  (Poison.) 

"The  powder  as  prescribed,  to  be  diluted  with 
Three  Parts  of  Milk,  and  applied  as  directed, 
for  clearing  the  complexion  and  freshening 
the  skin." 


THE    MAN    OF.   IRON  623 

Crash!  .  .  . 

A  turn  of  his  wrist,  and  the  corked-up  vial  flew  into  the 
fireplace,  smashing  on  the  chimney-bricks  and  raising 
showers  of  crimson  sparks  from  the  billets  blazing  there.  A 
rich  incense  of  scorching  wool  arose  from  the  Brussels 
carpet.  P.  C.  Breagh  stamped  out  one  red-hot  cinder, 
Von  Keudell  darted  in  pursuit  of  a  remoter  danger.  The 
Minister  himself  was  fain  to  extinguish  another  by  vigorous 
stamps  of  his  heavy  spurred  riding-boots. 

' '  Take  warning, ' '  he  said  to  Juliette,  a  little  breathed  by 
his  exertions,  and  wiping  his  high-domed  forehead  and 
florid  cheeks  with  a  large  white  handkerchief,  carried,  in 
military  fashion,  in  the  cuff  of  his  coat.  "In  this  way 
dangerous,  high-flown  emotions  should  be  repressed  in 
young  girls,  by  sensible  parents.  In  what  a  false  and 
perilous  position  have  your  hysterical  notions  placed 
you.  .  .  ." 

He  coughed  and  hawked,  and  wiped  his  mouth  with  the 
big  white  handkerchief,  put  it  away  and  said,  as  though 
trying  to  lash  himself  into  a  rage: 

"Foolish  child!  Silly  girl!  .  .  .  Little  coquette! — pre- 
tending to  be  married  to  torture  a  sweetheart;  vaporing 
of  murder — acting  the  heroine — to  take  a  gaby's  breath 
away!  .  .  .  What  you  want  is  a  decent,  sensible  mother 
to  administer  a  good  whipping.  .  .  ." 

A  shudder  convulsed  her  slight  body.  In  the  firelight 
her  face  looked  rigid  and  drawn. 

He  might  have  pursued,  had  not  the  gaby  to  whom  he 
had  unceremoniously  referred  stopped  him  by  crying: 

' '  Be  silent !  I  will  not  stand  by  and  listen  to  such  lan- 
guage !  I  will  not  permit  you  to  speak  to  her  so ! " 

"So!"  He  surveyed  the  crop-headed,  red- faced  young 
man  in  the  green  baize  apron,  with  grim  incredulity.  ' '  You 
will  not  permit  me  to  speak!  You  will  silence  me?  .  .  . 
How?" 

P.  C.  Breagh  said  desperately: 

"I  do  not  know  how — but  I  will  somehow  silence  you! 
.  .  .  Perhaps  by  reminding  you  that  Mademoiselle  de 
Bayard  is  helpless  and  unprotected.  That  she  has  no 
stronger  champion  and  no  better  advocate  than  a  gaby  like 
myself." 

"Retire  to  your  room,  then!"  he  said  to  her  grimly. 
"Henceforth  you  do  not  meddle  in  the  kitchen,  Mademoi- 


624  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

selle.  You  cook  capitally,  your  beignets  are  worth  a  belly- 
ache, but  just  at  this  moment  I  am  indispensable  to  Ger- 
many. .  .  .  Observe!  You  will  remain  entirely  in  your 
room  upstairs,  until  I  decide  what  is  to  be  done  with 
you!"  He  added,  less  roughly:  "Madame  Potier  will 
attend  on  you  and  bring  you  your  meals.  And — in  compli- 
ment to  your  unflinching  candor — I  will  ask  you  to  give 
me  your  parole  not  to  attempt  to  escape!  ..." 

She  put  up  both  hands  to  her  eyes,  and  they  were  trem- 
bling. When  she  took  them  away  there  were  tears  upon 
her  face. 

"  Monseigneur,  I  thank  you.  I  give  my  parole  not  to 
run  away." 

"So  be  it!"  he  said,  and  slightly  acknowledging  her 
deep  curtsey,  motioned  to  Von  Keudell  to  open  the  door. 

LXXII 

SHE  passed  out  of  the  room.  Von  Keudell  held  open  the 
door  for  her.  As  he  did  so,  he  glanced  toward  his  Chief 
for  instructions.  The  Minister  said,  answering  the  inter- 
rogation in  the  look: 

"No.  I  prefer  to  extend  to  Mademoiselle  the  semi- 
liberty  of  the  parole."  He  added:  "Exceptional  cases 
must  be  treated  exceptionally.  Upon  a  different  kind  of 
young  woman  I  should  promptly  turn  the  key.  Tell  Grams 
and  Engelberg  that  they  are  released  from  duty  outside 
there.  And  Niederstedt.  ..." 

He  whistled,  and  the  great  red  face  and  huge  unwieldy 
figure  of  the  East  Prussian  ex-door  porter  filled  up  nearly 
the  whole  width  of  one  of  the  long  windows.  The  red  face 
disappeared  as  the  steam  of  its  owner's  breath  dimmed  the 
glass,  and  the  effect  was  so  quaint  that  the  Minister  laughed 
irresistibly  as  he  opened  the  window  and  relieved  the  im- 
peccable guard,  saying: 

"Why,  my  good  Niederstedt,  you  are  frozen — you  smoke 
like  a  volcano.  Go  down  to  the  house-steward — tell  him 
to  give  you  some  old  corn-brandy,  hot,  with  sugar  and 
pepper.  That  will  thaw  you  inside  as  well  as  out !  .  .  . " 

He  shut  the  window,  and  came  back  to  the  fireplace, 
pushed  forward  the  great  green  brocade  armchair,  and 
threw  himself  into  it,  saying  as  he  stretched  his  long  legs 
out  to  the  glowing  billets : 


THE    MAN    OF   IRON  625 

"You  may  go,  Mr.  Breagh;  there  is  no  cause  for  detain- 
ing you.  But  while  you  remain  here,  revert  to  your  own 
dress,  and  leave  it  to  more  experienced  hands  to  polish  the 
floor  and  balusters,  to  which  I  adhere  like  a  fly  who  has 
walked  upon  treacle,  half-a-dozen  times  in  a  day.  Remem- 
ber— I  see  no  reason  for  denying  you  reasonable  access  to 
the  society  of  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard — unless  she  objects 
to  your  visits,  in  which  case  she  will  probably  notify 

me! "  He  added  more  genially:  "Sit  down.  Take 

that  chair  opposite  me.  .  .  .  You  need  no  longer  stand  in 
the  attitude  of  a  suspected  criminal.  Indeed,  I  rather 
think  you  have  repaid  a  small  service  I  was  enabled  to 
render  you  in  pulling  you  out  of  a  Berlin  crowd,  last  July. 
Ah,  that  reminds  me.  I  must  ask  you  for  the  return  of 
that  paper.  ..."  He  watched  with  a  slight  expression  of 
amusement  as  P.  C.  Breagh  produced  the  shabby  note- 
case from  a  pocket  inside  his  livery  waistcoat,  comment- 
ing: 

"Had  you  been  searched,  those  papers  would  have  be- 
trayed you  instantly.  One  more  skilled  in  the  art  of  dis- 
guise would  have  carried  nothing  that  could  afford  infor- 
mation. That  is  a  very  elementary  rule." 

P.  C.  Breagh  said,  meeting  the  powerful  eyes  fully: 

"I  have  already  had  the  honor  to  explain  to  Your  Ex- 
cellency that  my  disguise  was  not  assumed  for  any  purpose 
but  that  of  remaining  near  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard." 

He  rose  and  offered  the  folded  half -sheet  of  Chancellery 
note  to  the  Minister,  who  took  it,  unfolded  and  glanced  at 
the  black  upright  characters  above  the  signature,  then  tore 
the  paper  to  pieces,  and,  leaning  forward,  dropped  it  into 
the  heart  of  the  fire.  Then  he  kicked  back  a  charring  log 
with  the  toe  of  his  great  riding-boot,  and  said,  leaning  back 
in  the  green  armchair : 

"Credited — as  to  your  statement  about  the  reason  of 
your  impersonation.  You  should  see  to  it  that  Mademoi- 
selle rewards  such  chivalry.  As  regards  the  pass  I  have 
just  cremated — did  you  find  it  useful  or — otherwise?" 

P.  C.  Breagh  said: 

' '  The  one  and  only  time  I  did  use  it,  it  proved  of  service 
to  me.  But  later " 

"Speak  frankly,"  said  the  Chancellor.  "I  have  no  dis- 
relish for  candor,  you  are  aware." 

P.  C.  Breagh  said,  flushing  to  the  temples : 


626  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Later,  the  accidental  discovery  that  I  possessed  it, 
exposed  me  to  the  accusation  of  being  a  spy. ' ' 

"So  you  chose  to  do  without  it?" 

"I  thought,"  said  P.  C.  Breagh,  "that  I  would  try  to 
do  without  it.  And  upon  the  whole  I  managed — better 
than  I  expected  to.  .  .  ." 

"To  put  it  baldly,"  commented  the  resonant  voice  of 
the  Minister,  "you  preferred  to  travel  in  blinkers  and  with 
hobbles  on — for  the  sake  of  a  scruple  of  the  genteel  kind. 
That  is  your  Celtic  blood.  .  .  .  You  remind  me  of  the 
story — I  think  it  hails  from  Dublin,  of  the  little  old  spin- 
ster lady  of  high  family,  who  was  reduced  for  a  living  to 
hawking  pickled  pig's-trotters  in  the  streets.  She  accepted 
the  money  to  buy  the  license,  with  the  basket  and  the  first 
Installment  of  trotters,  and  went  forth  into  the  streets  to 
sell  them — but  beyond  this,  as  a  gentlewoman — her  feel- 
ings did  not  permit  her  to  go.  So  she  cried,  in  a  whisper : 
'  Trotters !  who  '11  buy  my  trotters !  Only  a  penny !  Pickled 
trotters !  Please  God,  nobody  hears  me ! '  .  .  .  and  nobody 
did  hear  her,  so  that  was  the  end  of  her.  ..." 

He  had  told  his  absurd  tale  with  one  of  those  comic 
changes  of  face  and  voice  characteristic  of  him.  Now  he 
reverted  to  gravity,  and  said,  as  P.  C.  Breagh  rose  to  with- 
draw : 

"Go!  but  remain  here  as  my  guest  for  the  present. 
You  are  not  under  surveillance.  But  there  is  one  question 
I  must  again  put  to  you.  What  of  this  mysterious  per- 
sonage who  represented  himself  to  you  as  M.  Charles 
Tessier?  You  must  now  be  convinced  that  Mademoiselle 
knows  nothing  of  him?  Well,  then,  I  will  repeat  the 
simple  questions  which  you  refused  to  answer  just  now. 
Where  did  you  first  see  him  ?  how  long  ago  ?  and  how  many 
times  have  you  encountered  him?" 

P.  C.  Breagh  had  been  first  addressed  by  the  stranger 
when  returning  from  an  errand  in  the  character  of  Jean 
Jacques.  Putting  it  roughly,  about  a  fortnight  back.  Since 
then,  he  had  been  twice  spoken  to  by  the  same  man.  Inter- 
rogated as  to  the  appearance  of  the  stranger,  he  ruminated 
a  moment,  then  answered:  "The  man  was  of  middle 
height,  but  broad  and  tremendously  muscular.  He  was 
remarkable  to  look  at,  very  dark;  with  great  black  eye- 
brows, and  a  profile  like  that  of  an  Egyptian  hawk-prod. 
No!  .  .  .  He  was  more  like  those  curly-bearded  man-bird- 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  627 

bulls  Layard  dug  up  in  the  mounds  of  Babylonia  and 
Assyria. ' ' 

Said  the  Minister: 

"You  have  answered  all  my  questions  in  that  simile.  .  .  . 
The  man  is  Straz  the  Roumanian,  who  is  supposed  to  have 
married  Madame  de  Bayard.  "What  was  it  she  said  to  you 
this  morning  when  I  had  the  ill-manners  to  break  upon  the 
lady's  confidences?" 

Said  Breagh,  with  a  pucker  between  the  broad  eye- 
brows that  would  be  red  when  he  had  washed  off  the 
soot: 

"Whatever  she  is,  she  is  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard's 
mother,  and  I  would  ask  Your  Excellency  to  remember 
it  too." 

"Quatsch!"  said  His  Excellency  roughly.  "Mademoi- 
selle de  Bayard — for  whom  I  have  a  sneaking  sort  of  kind- 
ness, in  spite  of  her  avowedly  bloodthirsty  intentions 
toward  myself! — has  no  worse  enemy  than  that  adven- 
turess-mother of  hers,  and  you  should  be  aware  of  it  by 
this  time.  In  plain  words,  she  visited  me  in  the  Wilhelm 
Strasse  upon  an  occasion  you  will  remember,  to  offer  to 
sell  me  Mademoiselle  as  bait  for  the  better  catching  of  an 
Imperial  fish.  I  did  not  take  the  high  horse  with  her,  but 
refused  her  simply  as  declining  an  unsuitable  business 
proposal."  He  laughed  and  added:  "These  good  ladies 
have  conveniently  short  memories.  Imagine  her  coming 
to  appeal  to  me  to-day,  in  the  character  of  a  bereaved 
mother  with  a  yearning  heart!  .  .  .  "Well,  now  she  has 
asked  you  to  go  to  see  her?  Have  I  not  hit  it?" 

Answered  Breagh: 

"She  told  me  that  I  was  English,  and  that  she  remem- 
bered having  seen  me  at  Your  Excellency's.  She  asked 
me  where  her  daughter  was,  and  then — when  I  pretended 
stupidity — she  laughed,  and  insisted  that  I  must  visit  her 
to-night  or  to-morrow  night.  How  late  did  not  matter. 
She  seemed  certain  that  I  would  come." 

"Well,  you  will  go  to  her,"  said  the  Minister,  "but 
not  to-night,  I  think!  To-morrow  night  would  be  prefer- 
able! ...  If  you  appeared  to-night,  she  would  think  that 
you  are  to  be  easily  got  over,  and  she  would  not  show  her 
hand  to  you.  Go  to  her  late.  Twelve  o'clock  will  not  be  too 
late  for  her.  Women  of  her  type  are  usually  night-birds — 
and,  besides,  most  people  sit  up  on  Christmas  Eve.  Re- 


628  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

port  direct  to  me  at  whatever  hour  you  may  get  back.  I 
myself  am  not  likely  to  turn  in  before  daylight,  because 
the  Crown  Prince  and  the  three  Bavarian  Envoys  dine 
here."  He  added,  looking  quizzically  at  the  young  man: 
"Now  you  are  saying  to  yourself,  'That  has  something  to 
do  with  the  scheme  for  the  accession  of  the  South  German 
States  to  the  North  German  Confederation.  .  .  .  An  agree- 
ment has  been  definitely  arrived  at.  That  is  why  Bismarck 
let  that  fat  plum  drop  about  the  New  German  Empire  just 
now.'  " 

He  laughed  outright  as  P.  C.  Breagh  reddened,  but  made 
no  effort  to  deny  the  charge,  and  went  on: 

"Baden  and  Wiirtemburg  have  come  to  terms.  You 
cannot  use  the  intelligence  before  it  will  be  known  by 
everyone  in  London,  so  I  risk  nothing  by  telling  you.  Our 
chief  stumbling-block  has  been  the  King  of  Bavaria,  who 
suffers  from  gumboils,  and  considers  that  in  turning  the 
Palace  of  Versailles  into  a  military  hospital,  we  have  out- 
raged the  shades  of  Louis  XIV.,  Madame  de  Montespan, 
Louis  XV.,  Madame  de  Pompadour,  and  Queen  Marie 
Antoinette."  He  added  curtly:  "There!  be  off,  and  tell 
Grams  to  send  word  to  the  stable  that  I  am  ready  for  the 
horses.  I  ride  with  Count  Hatzfeldt  another  hour  to- 
day. And  change  those  clothes,  if  you  would  have  me 
cease  to  address  you  as  a  footboy.  .  .  .  Clothes  cannot 
make  a  man,  but  the  lack  of  them  can  mar  him — if  they 
make  him  appear  a  clod. ' ' 

The  horses  came,  and  he  rode  out  with  Hatzfeldt.  There 
was  a  piercing  northeast  wind  and  a  spatter  of  freezing 
sleet,  much  resented  by  the  Diplomatic  Secretary  and  his 
thin-skinned  thoroughbred,  and  even  displeasing  to  the 
Chancellor's  great  brown  mare. 

The  iron  lions  of  Mont  Valerien  were  growling  and 
spitting  shell  down  into  the  surrounding  valleys,  thickly 
wooded  with  trees,  now  stripped — all  save  the  firs  and 
pines — of  leaves,  and  glittering-white  with  frost.  The 
lakes  in  the  parks  were  frozen.  Hundreds  of  thrushes 
drifted  like  leaves  before  the  icy  gale,  toward  the  low- 
growing  coverts  of  ivy  and  brushwood.  A  balloon  rose 
within  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  soared,  and  traveled  south- 
west. 

Reaching  the  Aqueduct  of  Marly,  they  dismounted,  for 
the  purpose  of  taking  what  the  Minister  termed  "a  peep 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  629 

at  Paris  from  the  platform,"  and,  leaving  their  horses  to 
the  care  of  the  grooms,  transferred  themselves  there. 

Behind  the  Forest  of  Marly  the  red  sun  of  December 
was  sinking  over  the  frosty  landscape.  The  Minister 
glanced  casually  through  his  glasses  at  the  ruined  houses 
of  Louveciennes  in  the  foreground,  sheltered  amidst  their 
clumps  of  whitened  trees;  and  sweeping  over  the  villages 
of  La  Celle  and  Bougival,  looked  long  toward  Fort  Mont 
Valerien,  where  the  great  stronghold  sat  perched  on  its 
height  with  its  many  windows  glowing  like  furnaces  in 
that  fierce  reflection  from  the  crimson  west. 

The  line  of  the  Eennes  and  Brest  railway  running  from 
Courbevoie  through  the  Park  of  St.  Cloud  and  Versailles 
showed  strongly  held  by  Prussian  outposts.  Beyond,  be- 
tween banks  dotted  with  damaged  hamlets,  and  bordered 
on  the  north  side  with  fanged  ice  sheets,  the  silver-gray 
Seine  wound,  flowing  sluggishly  about  her  islands,  wrin- 
kling her  lips  in  disgust  at  the  jagged  buttresses  of  the 
bridges  that  had  been  blown  up.  Farther  south,  over  the 
lopped  trees  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  rose  the  great  shin- 
ing dome  of  the  Invalides,  bathed  in  that  ominous  ruddi- 
ness, looking  like  a  great  cabochon  ruby  studding  a  shield 
of  silvery-green  bronze.  For  Paris  from  this  point  of 
view  is  shield-shaped,  crossed  with  the  bar-sinister  of  her 
historic  river;  backed  with  her  fortifications  as  by  the 
enamel-and-silver  work  of  a  cunning  jeweler;  set  with 
points  of  diamond  where  the  bayonets  of  a  column  of 
marching  infantry  moved  out  from  the  ramparts  along  the 
road  toward  Fort  Vanves. 

It  was  frightfully  cold.  Said  Hatzfeldt,  stamping  to 
recover  the  circulation  in  his  numbed  feet,  and  beating  his 
gloved  hands  vigorously  upon  his  sides : 

"How  cold!  ...  I  can  smell  more  snow.  Heaps  of  it, 
coming ! ' ' 

The  Chief  turned  an  eye  toward  the  speaker  without 
lowering  the  glasses  through  which  he  was  looking.  He 
completed  his  survey  before  he  said,  restoring  the  binocu- 
lars to  their  case,  and  speaking  with  a  jarring  note  of  anger 
in  his  voice  that  made  the  Secretary  arch  his  eyebrows : 

"I  do  not  smell  what  I  should  like  best  to  smell,  and 
that  is,  the  smoke  of  a  German  bombardment ! ' '  He  added : 
"We  have  to  thank  women  and  priests,  and  Jews  and  Free- 
masons, if  our  operations  are  not  conducted  as  energeti- 


630  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

cally  as  they  should  be.  To  begin  with,  Monsignor  Dupan- 
loup  has  Augusta  by  the  apron  string — the  Crown  Prince, 
cajoled  by  his  wife  and  bullied  by  Victoria,  his  mother-in- 
law — is  ready  to  give  up  the  command  if  I  insist  that 
we  begin.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  how  many  weeks  it  has  taken 
me  to  get  our  Most  Gracious  to  consent  that  the  siege 
train  should  be  moved  from  Villa  Coublay  and  placed  in 
position?  And  then  Moltke  and  the  generals  asserted  that 
we  had  not  ammunition  enough.  .  .  .  Given  three  hundred 
powerful  siege  guns — ninety  of  them  howitzers — with  fifty 
or  sixty  mortars,  and  five  hundred  rounds  of  ammunition 
for  each — could  not  we  pour  sufficient  shell  into  the  city 
to  bring  her  to  reason?  Give  me  the  post  of  Commander- 
in-Chief  for  twenty-four  hours — and  I  will  take  it  upon 
myself!  .  .  ." 

Hatzf eldt  said  mentally : 

"Ah,  the  devil!  wouldn't  you — and  with  a  vengeance!" 

The  Chancellor  went  on,  deep  lines  of  anger  and  vexa- 
tion digging  themselves  into  his  gloomy  face : 

"Never  were  two  men  more  reluctant  to  reap  the  fruits 
of  a  great  victory  than  our  Most  Gracious  and  his  Heir 
Apparent — who  in  this  matter,  as  in  some  others,  needs  a 
candle  to  light  up  his  head !  .  .  . " 

His  face  took  on  a  sullen  cast.  He  stamped  his  foot 
upon  the  ground,  and  bayed  out  like  some  deep-mouthed 
bloodhound : 

"If  they  have  no  ambition  of  their  own — these  Hohen- 
zollerns — do  not  they  owe  something  to  mine  ? ' ' 

He  ended,  breaking  into  his  great  laugh,  evoked  by 
something  in  the  expression  of  his  Secretary : 

"Here  am  I — applying  to  you  for  sympathy,  who  are 
just  as  petticoat-ridden  by  your  Countess  as  the  King  and 
Prince  Fritz  by  their  respective  better  halves.  Have  you 
not  your  mother-in-law  and  your  millionaire  papa-in-law 
shut  up  there  in  the  Rue  de  Helder — to  say  nothing  of 
your  wife's  pet  pair  of  pony  cobs?" 

Hatzf  eldt  returned,  shrugging  ruefully: 

"I  had  another  letter  from  my  wife  about  the  cobs 
this  morning.  Heaven  knows  whether  they  are  still 
alive!" 

The  Minister  said  with  a  touch  of  malice: 

"It  is  quite  certain  that  there  has  been  no  fresh  meat  in 
Paris  now  for  some  time.  Except  ass  and  mule  flesh  at 


THE    MAN,   OF,   IRON  631 

fifteen  francs  a  pound.  Dogs  and  cats  are  getting  scarce, 
consequently  ragout  de  lievre  has  become  the  staple  dish  at 
all  the  restaurants.  ..." 

Hatzf eldt  rejoined  with  a  sigh : 

"I  am  not  quite  sure  that  a  little  starvation  would  not 
be  good  for  myself  personally,  and  one  or  two  others  of  the 
Prussian  Foreign  Office  staff.  For  there  is  no  denying  we 
eat  a  great  deal  too  much.  Your  Excellency  knows  there 
are  few  nights  when  we  spend  at  the  dinner  table  less  than 
two  hours  and  a  half." 

The  answer  came : 

"You  should  eat  little  for  breakfast,  and  nothing  in  the 
middle  of  the  day;  then  your  stomachs  would  neigh  and 
prance  at  the  dinner  call  as  mine  never  fails  to  do.  Some- 
times you  see  me  dine  twice  without  ill  results — as  when  I 
am  going  to  the  King,  who  keeps  a  bad  table — and  find  it 
necessary  to  fortify  myself  beforehand.  ..." 

He  broke  off  speaking  to  cough  and  expectorate,  and 
Hatzf  eldt,  noting  the  deep  yellow  hue  of  his  jaws  and 
temples  and  forehead,  and  the  sagging  pouches  under  the 
great  eyes,  and  the  caves  that  his  anxieties  and  labors  had 
recently  dug  about  them,  said  to  himself  that  the  Chief's 
health  was  not  what  it  had  been;  that  any  fool  could  see 
with  half  an  eye  he  was  terribly  liverish;  that  he  slept 
little  and  spat  bile  continually,  and  that  his  superhuman 
capacity  for  work,  in  combination  with  his  superhuman 
powers  of  eating  and  drinking,  were  maintained  at  high 
pressure  by  a  remorseless  vanity  that  proved  him  no 
stronger  or  wiser  than  other  men. 

What  was  he  saying  in  tones  tinged  with  mockery,  for  he 
had  probably  taken  that  reference  to  the  excess  of  luxury 
at  the  Foreign  Office  in  the  Rue  de  Provence  as  a  thrust 
directed  at  himself: 

"If  you  would  really  like  to  try  high  living  after  the 
latest  Parisian  style,  I  have  at  home  among  some  letters 
taken  from  a  balloon  captured  yesterday  the  menu  of  a 
dinner  given  at  Voisin's  on  the  twenty-first  by  some  rich 
Americans:  Potage  St.  Germain.  .  .  .  Cotelettes  de  loup 
chasseur.  .  .  .  Chat  garni  des  rats  rotis,  sauce  poivrade. 
Rosbif  de  Chameau.  .  .  .  Salade  de  legumes.  Cepes  a  la 
Bordelaise.  Dessert,  none  at  all.  ...  I  gathered  from  the 
same  source  that  the  Government  are  going  to  take  over  all 
private  stores  of  provisions,  and  that  the  edible  animals 


632  THE    MAN    OF,   IRON 

confined  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  are  to  be  shot  and  cut 
up  for  sale." 

"Good-bye  to  poor  Touti's  ponies,  then,"  said  the  Secre- 
tary, with  resignation,  "and  possibly  farewell  also  to  my 
hopes  of  a  sturdy  son  and  heir." 

"Ah !  if  things  are  as  serious  as  that,"  said  the  Minister, 
"you  had  better  telegraph  to  the  Countess.  Prince  Witt- 
genstein, Clarmont,  and  little  Desjardin,  Secretary  of  the 
Belgian  Legation  in  Paris,  left  there  yesterday  morning  by 
special  permit  from  General  Trochu.  All  three  packed 
into  a  coupe  belonging  to  Prince  Croy — these  equine  treas- 
ures of  your  wife's  were  harnessed  to  the  vehicle.  They 
were  to  spend  the  night  at  Villeneuve  St.  Georges — and 
you  will  probably  find  them  in  Versailles  when  we  get 
back." 

He  added  as  the  Secretary  thanked  him  with  effusive- 
ness: 

"As  regards  the  family  in  the  Eue  de  Helder  and  your 
bootmaker — the  only  man  in  the  world  who  can  turn  you 
out  properly ! — you  may  tell  them,  if  you  are  in  communi- 
cation with  them,  that  until  the  twenty-seventh  of  Decem- 
ber they  may  sleep  in  peace.  ...  As  to-morrow  is  Christ- 
mas Eve,  that  means  four  unbroken  nights  of  slumber. 
After  that — the  Deluge ;  not  of  water,  but  of  fire  and  steel 
and  lead."  He  added,  ignoring  the  Secretary's  start  and 
half-suppressed  exclamation :  ' '  Call  to  Reichardt  to  bring 
up  the  horses.  I  find  it  chilly — let  us  be  getting  back!" 


LXXIII 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  came  with  an  unloading  of  all  the  count- 
less tons  of  snow  that  had  lain  pent  up  behind  those  skies 
of  leaden  grayness.  The  Seine  froze  in  thin  crackling 
patches,  Paris  and  the  surrounding  country  lay  under  two 
feet  of  snow.  Kraus,  Klaus,  Schmidt,  and  Klein  of  the 
Army  of  United  Germany  told  each  other  gleefully  that  it 
was  going  to  be  a  real  German  Christmas,  after  all.  Nearly 
every  man  had  packed  up  and  sent  a  French  clock  or  a 
porcelain  vase  as  a  seasonable  gift  to  his  family  in  Ger- 
many, or  some  article  of  furniture  of  a  bulkier  kind.  Now 
upon  the  side  of  the  senders  of  these  love  gifts  was  a  great 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  633 

unpacking  of  strongly  smelling  parcels  directed  in  well- 
known  characters,  and  containing  cakes,  sausages,  pudding, 
loaves  of  black  bread,  cheeses,  barrels  of  Magdeburg,  sauer- 
kraut, and  salt  meat  to  eat  with  it,  sweets,  tobacco,  cigars, 
and  pipes.  Each  hospital  and  barracks,  camp  and  quarters 
displayed  elaborate  preparations  for  merrymaking;  the 
most  distant  outpost  wore  a  festive  air.  Wagonloads  of 
holly,  ivy,  and  mistletoe  creaked  over  the  snow.  Minia- 
ture forests  of  fir  trees,  large  and  small,  had  been  cut  down, 
and  set  up  in  tubs  of  earth  for  the  festival. 

French  eyes  regarded  these  preparations  upon  the  part 
of  their  foes  with  curiosity.  For  Catholics  there  would  be 
Midnight  Mass  at  the  churches — by  consent  of  the  German 
authorities ! — Holy  Communion — and  some  sort  of  supper — 
possibly  none  this  War  Christmas — upon  the  return  from 
Church.  But  this  setting  out  of  tables  of  presents  under  the 
fir-branches  adorned  with  colored  tapers  hung  with  child- 
rejoicing  trifles  such  as  gilt  nuts  and  gingerbread,  apples 
and  sugar  plums;  this  singing  of  carols;  Luther's  " Euch 
ist  ein  Kindlein  heut  geboren,"  with  "Der  Tannenbaum," 
and  "Stille  Nackt,  Heilige  Nacht,"  the  frequent  references 
to  Santa  Glaus  and  his  sack,  and  the  Christkind — appar- 
ently regarded  as  a  benevolently  disposed  Puck  or 
Brownie,  was  to  the  adult  non-German  inhabitants  of  Ver- 
sailles excessively  puzzling,  unless  they  happened  to  be 
English  Protestants. 

Of  these  honest  Britons  there  was  a  fair  sprinkling,  the 
majority  of  them  being  exceedingly  depressed  and  out-at- 
elbows  refugees  from  Paris,  whose  exodus  from  the  city  in 
the  previous  month  of  November  had  been  achieved  under 
the  auspices  of  the  British  Government,  and  the  personal 
superintendence  of  Lord  Henry  Fermeroy,  Secretary  of 
Lord  Lyons 's  Embassy  at  Paris,  armed  with  a  safe  conduct 
from  General  Trochu. 

Despite  his  low-bosomed  vests,  Imperial,  and  French  ac- 
cent, this  sprig  of  British  nobility  behaved  like  a  man. 
From  the  old  lady  who  brought  a  tin  bonnet  box  full  of 
jewelry  and  a  case  containing  a  stuffed  pug,  with  the  prayer 
that  these  heirlooms  might  be  taken  care  of  at  the  Em- 
bassy, and  the  courtesan,  Cora  Pearl,  who  requested  formal 
permission  to  carry  on  business,  during  the  siege,  under 
the  protection  of  the  British  Flag,  as  from  e.ach  individual 
unit  of  the  army  of  distressed  Britishers  who  flocked  to 


634,  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

seek  his  aid  or  counsel,  Lord  Henry  earned  gratitude,  and 
praise,  and  good-will. 

When  the  provisions  and  money  subscribed  to  the  Fund 
for  the  aid  of  the  many  destitute  English  residents  in  Paris 
were  at  an  end,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  dip  his  hand  into 
his  own  breeches  pocket.  His  shining  patent-leather  boots 
carried  him  not  only  into  the  attics  and  cellars  where  grim 
Starvation  crouched  on  a  bed  of  damp  straw.  They  tripped 
over  the  Aubusson  carpets  of  the  drawing-rooms  where 
Genteel  Famine  sat  sipping  hot  water  out  of  Sevres  cups, 
wherewith  to  quell  its  gnawing  pangs,  and  retired,  without 
having  trodden  upon  a  single  corn  during  the  accomplish- 
ment of  their  owner's  charitable  errand.  He  bombarded 
Count  Bismarck  with  official  Notes,  until  he  had  obtained 
permission  from  that  grim  Cerberus  for  his  little  army  of 
refugees  to  pass  the  Prussian  lines. 

Of  his  dreary  three  days'  journey  in  charge  of  the  string 
of  country  carts  containing  the  exiles,  who  were  permitted 
to  travel  to  Versailles  via  the  Porte  Charenton,  Brie-Comte- 
Robert,  and  Corbeil,  Lord  Henry  afterward  penned  a  Nar- 
rative. Which  literary  effort,  printed,  bound  in  cloth  of  a 
soothing  green,  and  adorned  with  a  Portrait  of  the  Author, 
the  young  man  bestowed  upon  his  friends. 

Perhaps  you  can  see  the  blue  eyes  of  Juliette  peering 
between  the  frost  flowers  encrusting  the  window  of  her 
bedroom  on  the  second  floor,  which  commanded  a  view  of 
the  garden  of  the  Rue  de  Provence. 

She  had,  upon  the  previous  evening,  received  an  intima- 
tion from  the  Minister  that  she  would  be  permitted  to  take 
exercise  regularly  in  the  garden  between  the  hours  of  nine 
and  ten.  Thus  with  a  throbbing  heart,  she  dressed  the 
shining  tresses  so  long  concealed  under  Madame  Charles 
Tessier's  chenille  net  and  white  shawl,  and  arrayed  herself 
in  the  plain  black  silk  skirt  and  bodice  that  we  have  seen 
once  previously — looped  over  a  cloth  petticoat  of  the  same 
mourning  hue.  She  sought  for,  found,  and  put  on  the 
gray  velvet  jacket  trimmed  with  Persian  lambskin,  and 
the  little  gray  toque  that  matched  it,  despoiled  of  its  azure 
feather.  These  things,  with  many  others,  had  been  packed 
away  in  a  trunk  and  stowed  in  the  attic  now  occupied  by 
Madame  Potier,  when  Mademoiselle  had  departed  for  Bel- 
gium under  the  charge  of  Madame  Tessier. 

She  wound  a  white  silk  scarf  about  her  throat,  tied  on  a 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  635 

veil,  and  found  herself  wishing  for  a  knot  of  violets  to 
brighten  the  pale,  somberly  clad  reflection  in  the  looking- 
glass.  .  .  .  Color  .  .  .  and  her  Colonel's  grave  lying  under 
the  first-fallen  snow.  .  .  .  She  blushed  deep  rose  for  very 
shame  of  her  own  vanity,  and  then  in  all  conscience  the 
picture  was  bright  enough. 

The  pleasance,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  lay  under  a 
mantle  of  sparkling  whiteness.  The  orderlies  and  grooms 
had  already  cleared  and  scraped  the  paths  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  house.  The  ring  of  the  shovels  and  the  swish  of  the 
brooms  might  be  heard  in  the  distance.  Mademoiselle 
sighed,  thinking  of  Jean  Jacques  Potier. 

Then  timidly  she  stole  down  by  the  back  staircase  and 
passed  through  the  hall  door  into  a  world  all  glittering. 
The  keen  air  was  as  exhilarating  as  champagne.  It  breathed 
on  her  cheeks,  and  renewed  the  roses  that  had  bloomed 
there  when  she  had  frowned  at  the  girl  in  the  mirror.  The 
frost  kissed  her  eyes,  and  they  sparkled  like  sapphire- 
tinted  icicles.  She  tripped  down  the  short  curved  avenue, 
passed  the  gardener's  cottage,  and  turned  into  the  kitchen 
garden.  Not  that  she  was  looking  for  anybody  there. 

All  through  the  autumn  and  winter  in  a  sheltered  corner 
had  bloomed  a  large  standard  rose  tree  of  the  hardy,  late- 
flowering  kind.  The  storms  of  October  had  passed  over 
and  left  its  fragrant  pink  blooms  unscathed,  the  bitter 
winds  and  night  frosts  of  November  had  done  no  more  than 
brown  the  edges  of  an  outer  petal.  The  tree  in  its  fra- 
grance and  beauty,  and  its  strange  immunity  from  hurt  of 
wind  and  weather,  had  been  an  unfailing  source  of  pleas- 
ure to  Juliette.  When  an  overblown  flower  shed  its  leaves, 
she  had  gathered  up  and  kept  them.  When  a  new  bud 
plumped  and  bravely  unfolded,  her  heart  had  known  a  deli- 
cate thrill  of  joy. 

So  Mademoiselle  went  on  into  the  kitchen  garden,  whose 
paths  had  not  been  cleared  of  snow.  There  was  her  tree — 
standing  in  its  corner,  but  buried  to  the  lower  branches  in  a 
drift  that  had  formed  in  this  sheltered  angle  of  the  south- 
ward wall. 

The  roses  had  met  their  match  at  last.  Drooping  and 
yellow,  sodden  and  heavy,  they  had  no  more  courage  or 
hope  to  give  away.  Juliette  kissed  both  her  hands  to 
them,  in  farewell,  and  turned  to  encounter  P.  C.  Breagh. 

The  green  baize  apron  and  other  integuments  of  the  late 


636 

Jean  Jacques  Potier  had  been  replaced  by  the  old  brown 
Norfolk  suit  so  often  mentioned  in  these  pages.  It  had 
been  sedulously  brushed  and  his  linen  was  scrupulously 
white,  and  he  had  bestowed  infinite  pains  upon  the  knot 
of  the  black  silk,  loose-ended  tie.  His  cropped  hair  would 
grow  again,  and  his  broad  red  smear  of  eyebrow  was  echoed 
on  his  upper  lip  by  a  young  but  decidedly  red  mustache 
with  rather  fuzzy  corners.  The  pleasant  lips  smiled  at  sight 
of  her,  and  a  hot  flame  leaped  into  the  gray-and-amber  eyes. 
Her  own  could  not  be  likened  to  sapphire  icicles  now. 
They  were  tender,  and  her  long  upper  lip  was  haunted  by 
flying  smiles  that  came,  and  vanished,  and  came  again. 

"It  is  you!  Ah,  my  friend,"  she  said,  "I  am  so  glad — 
I  am  so  glad!" 

He  caught  the  gloved  hands  she  stretched  out  to  him, 
and  held  them  in  his,  that  were  reddened  with  Jean  Jacques 
Potier 's  labors,  and  kissed  them  eagerly.  The  little  gray 
gloves  were  not  buttoned — his  warm  lips  feasted  unchecked 
upon  each  blue-veined  wrist,  until  she  told  him  breath- 
lessly : 

"No  more! — there  must  be  no  more!  .  .  .  Pray  cease, 
my  friend!" 

She  had  withdrawn  her  hands.  .  .  .  He  said  with  a  catch 
in  his  breath  and  with  eyes  that  implored  her : 

"I  do  not  offend  you?  .  .  ." 

She  looked  at  him  full  and  drew  off  one  glove  and  laid 
the  bare  hand  in  his  extended  palm.  Warm  and  soft,  it 
seemed  incredibly  small  as  it  lay  there.  The  touch  of  it 
infused  a  melting  sweetness;  a  thrill  went  through  the 
man  from  head  to  foot.  Perhaps  the  thrill  was  communi- 
cated, for  she  drew  her  hand  away  quickly.  She  said: 

' '  You  are  very  generous  to  one  who  has  so  often  deceived 
you.  .  .  .  How  many  times  I  have  condemned  myself  for 
my  wickedness,  thinking :  '  Of  all  those  noble  deeds  I  have 
described  in  the  letters,  not  one  has  been  really  performed 
by  M.  Charles  Tessier.  .  .  .  All  are  invented  to  make  a 
good  face ! '  : 

He  said  in  a  whisper: 

"I  could  forgive  you  for  making  even  a  worse  fool  of 
me — now  I  know  you  never  were  married!  It  was  your 
telling  me  that  knocked  me  out  of  time.  .  .  .  Nothing  else 
mattered  much  afterward.  .  .  .  You  said  to  Monseigneur 
yesterday  that  it  was  to  retain  your  place  in  this  house  you 


THE   MAN   OF   IRON  687 

pretended  to  be  the  wife  of  its  master.  But  why  did  you 
pretend  it  in  the  first  place  to  me?" 

She  began  to  change  color  from  pale  to  red,  and  tried 
to  free  her  hand.  It  was  impossible.  He  said : 

"I  mean  to  know.  ...  I  have  the  right  to  know!  .  .  ." 

She  faltered: 

"See  you  well,  Monsieur,  I  cannot  explain.  ..." 

He  said  doggedly: 

"Then  I  shall  explain  it  for  you.  You  told  me  that  to 
make  me  jealous !  Now,  did  you  not  ?" 

She  winced. 

"Monsieur  .  .  .  not  then!  .  .  .  Upon  my  faith,  I  assure 
you.  .  .  .  See  you  well,  I  had  promised  my  father  that 
M.  Charles  should  be  my  husband.  ...  I  would  have  kept 
that  promise  a  tout  hasard  .  .  .  had  M.  Charles  not  mar- 
ried Mademoiselle  Basselot.  And  so  I  told  you  I  was  mar- 
ried, not  then  to  make  you  jealous  .  .  .  that  came  after. 
But  to  make  it  ...  possible  to  be  true ! ' ' 

He  almost  reeled  under  the  sudden  shock  of  the  terrible, 
exquisite  confession.  He  would  have  given  a  year  of  life 
to  let  himself  go  with  the  sweet  roaring  current  that  tum- 
bled foaming  through  his  veins  and  sent  its  red  sparkling 
bubbles  to  his  brain.  But  there  were  steps  and  voices  on 
the  other  side  of  the  high  laurel  hedge  that  divided  the 
kitchen  garden  from  the  pleasance.  He  recognized  Bis- 
marck-Bohlen's  snigger  and  Hatzfeldt's  lazy,  well-bred 
accents — telling  an  anecdote  of  the  Minister  one  could  not 
doubt.  The  languid  voice  reached  their  ears  distinctly.  It 
said : 

"He  was  an  officer  of  French  Imperial  Hussars,  who  had 
been  taken  prisoner  at  Sedan,  and  had  broken  his  parole. 
He  had  been  taken  again  in  arms  against  us,  fighting  under 
General  Chancy  at  Le  Mans.  So  she  comes  post-haste  to 
Versailles,  lays  siege  to  the  King,  who  will  not  see  her — to 
the  Crown  Prince,  who  will  not  see  her — and  finally  to 
Moltke,  who  will  not  see  her,  because  all  three  of  them  are 
cowards  at  the  sight  of  a  woman's  tears.  Finally  the  Chief 
consents  to  receive  her.  ...  It  was  yesterday,  in  his  room 
at  the  Prefecture.  She  comes  in — all  in  black,  which  to  a 
blonde  of  her  type  is  very  suitable,  full  of  hope  at  not 
being  made  to  croquer  le  marmot  for  long.  She  reels  off  a 
long  tale  about  her  Frederic,  his  bravery,  and  his  excellent 
heart.  The  Chief  listens  sympathetically,  looking  at  the 


638  THE    MAN   OF    IRON 

clock  from  time  to  time.  Again  the  heart  is  pressed  upon 
his  notice.  It  is  heavy  with  grief  at  the  thought  of  a  life 
parting  from  Madame,  who  is  Frederic's  mistress,  by  the 
way — and  not  his  wife !  ...  It  is  weighed  down  with  sus- 
pense at  the  delay  of  the  Prussian  Kriegsrath  in  answering 
the  loved  ones  his  prayer.  .  .  .  She  gets  so  far,  when  the 
Chief  looks  up  at  the  clock,  and  says,  touching  his  table 
bell :  '  Madame,  that  excellent  heart  of  your  client  is  even 
heavier  than  it  was  five  minutes  ago.  .  .  .'  'How,  Mon- 
seigneur?'  cries  Madame.  'He  was  shot,'  says  the  Chief, 
'just  now  when  I  looked  up  at  the  clock.  And,  as  a  rule, 
seven  out  of  the  ten  bullets  shot  off  by  the  firing  party  are 
found  to  have  lodged  in  the  region  of  the  heart.'  So  the 
poor  woman  screamed  and  fainted.  They  carried  her  past 
me  with  her  teeth  set  and  all  her  fine  hair  hanging 
down.  ..." 

Bismarck-Bohlen  's  snigger  greeted  the  denouement.  The 
footsteps  grew  fainter.  Juliette  and  Breagh  exchanged 
glances.  She  said  with  white  lips : 

"Monseigneur  can  be  merciless!  And  yet,  when  I  heard 
him  tell  my  mother  that  did  he  know  of  my  hiding  place, 
he  would  not  betray  it,  I  said  to  myself:  'How  you  have 
misjudged  this  man!'  ' 

Her  comrade  had  started  at  the  reference  to  Madame  de 
Bayard,  remembering  the  rendezvous  to  be  kept  that  night. 
Juliette  went  on,  with  a  liquid  look : 

"Monsieur,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you.  .  .  .  All  those 
weeks  when  I  struggled  with  that  purpose  from  which  you 
tried  so  faithfully  to  dissuade  me,  I  did  not  once  dare  to 
set  foot  in  Our  Lord 's  House.  But  when  I  threw  away  that 
wicked  bottle,  I  found  that  I  could  pray  once  more.  .  .  . 
I  went  to  the  Carmelite  Fathers  and  made  my  confession. 
...  I  received  Our  Lord  in  the  Holy  Communion  .  .  .  and 
my  scul  began  to  be  at  peace  again.  Now  it  is  Christmas 
Eve  and  I  should  much  like  to  attend  the  Midnight  High 
Mass,  or  the  Second  Mass  at  daybreak,  and  I  had  intended 
to  ask  you  to  take  me,  but  I  am  upon  parole.  .  .  . 
Therefore,  I  entreat  of  you — pray  for  me  when  you 
make  your  own  Communion.  How  much  I  need  Divine 
pardon  and  guidance  .  .  .  even  you  can  hardly 
know.  ..." 

His  conscience  stung.  He  had  not  intended  to  evade 
the  sacred  obligation,  yet  he  had  wavered  as  to  when  he 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  639 

should  comply  with  the  command  of  the  Church.  He 
said: 

"It  shall  be  as  you  ask.  I  shall  attend  High  Mass  at 
the  Church  of  the  Carmelites  at  midnight.  Afterward,  I 
have  an  appointment — at  a  place  some  distance  from  here. ' ' 

"So  late,  Monsieur?" 

Her  glance  had  not  only  surprise  in  it,  but  fear  for  him. 
He  said  lightly: 

"Very  late.  ...  I  may  not  get  back  until — some  time 
near  the  second  breakfast.  .  .  .  Madame  Potier  will  have 
some  hot  coffee  ready  for  me.  ..." 

She  flushed  and  knitted  her  small  hands  together  anx- 
iously. She  asked: 

"Could  you  not — could  you  not  take  me  into  your  confi- 
dence?" 

He  said  bluntly : 

"Not  without  myself  committing  a  breach  of  confi- 
dence. ..."  He  added,  holding  out  his  strong  hand: 
' '  Try  to  trust  me.  If  it  were  possible  to  tell  you,  I  would 
do  it,  you  must  know. ' ' 

"I  know  it,  and  I  trust  you,  Monsieur,  always.  ..." 

There  was  faith  in  her  eyes.  He  kissed  her  hands  and 
released  them,  and  turned  with  her  silently.  .  .  .  They 
walked  back  together  as  far  as  the  house. 


LXXIV 

AT  six  o'clock,  when  the  snow  had  ceased  falling  and  the 
old  moon  of  December  glowed  redly  through  a  thinning  veil 
of  frost  fog,  the  Crown  Prince  arrived  to  dine  with  the 
Minister. 

The  Heir  Apparent  of  Prussia  came  with  an  escort  of 
Dragoons  of  the  Bodyguard,  driving  with  one  of  his  aides- 
de-camp  in  a  closed  sledge  belonging  to  the  exiled  Empress, 
an  exquisite  vehicle,  finished  like  an  enameled  bonbon- 
niere,  supplied  with  a  great  white  Polar  bearskin,  and 
drawn  by  two  superb  black  Orloffs,  whose  glossy  coats  had 
the  burnish  of  old  Italian  armor  in  the  ruddy  light  of 
torches  held  by  orderlies  and  grooms. 

The  Minister,  followed  by  Hatzf eldt  and  his  Chief  Privy 
Councilor,  went  down  bareheaded,  between  a  double  row 


640  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

of  Chancery  attendants,  dressed  in  their  new  dark-blue 
liveries,  with  black  velvet  facings,  to  welcome  his  Crown 
Prince.  The  broad  breast  of  "Unser  Fritz"  displayed  the 
Order  Pour  la  Merit e,  with  the  First- Class  of  the  Iron 
Cross,  and  the  Red  Eagle,  with  an  English  Order,  bestowed 
by  Queen  Victoria  upon  her  son-in-law.  He  sported  new 
shoulder  straps,  distinctive  of  his  newly  conferred  rank  as 
Field  Marshal,  and  cut  a  very  gallant  figure,  as  may  be 
supposed. 

Perhaps  you  can  see  him  at  the  head  of  the  long  table  in 
the  dining-room  of  the  Tessier  mansion,  his  Chancellor  and 
host  upon  his  left  hand.  Upon  his  right  sat  the  Bavarian 
plenipotentiary,  Count  Maltzahn.  Count  Holnstein,  an- 
other Bavarian  Minister,  newly  arrived  from  Munich  with 
a  letter  from  his  King,  and  the  Bavarian  Minister  of  War, 
Von  Pranky,  were  severally  disposed  according  to  their 
degrees.  Prince  Putbus  was  there,  and  a  certain  Herr  von 
Zadowski,  a  large  red-faced  man  in  a  green  Hussar  uni- 
form, wearing  a  white  patch  with  a  red  Cross,  the  badge 
of  the  Knights  of  St.  John,  and  the  Iron  Cross,  was  also 
present,  and  the  Secretaries  and  Privy  Councilors  filled 
the  lower  end  of  the  board;  sporting  the  new  Foreign 
Office  uniform  of  dark  blue,  with  black  velvet  side  stripes 
to  the  trousers,  and  a  black-velvet-collared,  double-but- 
toned military  frock.  Sword  belts  and  black-hilted  swords 
with  gold  knots  caused  the  more  stout  and  elderly  among 
the  Councilors  infinite  discomfort,  to  the  secret  but  acute 
delight  of  Bismarck-Bohlen  and  Count  Hatzfeldt.  The 
dinner,  composed  of  love  gifts  from  admiring  German 
patriots  to  their  Chancellor,  was  of  a  quality,  quantity, 
lusciousness,  and  length  calculated,  as  Privy  Councilor 
Bucher  piously  whispered  to  a  neighbor,  "to  make  a  guest 
imagine  himself  a  banqueter  in  Abraham's  bosom  before 
the  time." 

Long  before  his  table  companions  had  reached  the  zenith 
of  their  sensuous  enjoyment,  the  Crown  Prince  had  fin- 
ished his  temperate  meal.  The  Chancellor  commented  men- 
tally, glancing  at  the  clear,  rather  set  features  of  the  great 
golden-bearded  figure  seated  beside  him : 

"Fritz  is  endeavoring  to  impress  myself  and  these  Ba- 
varians, with  whom  it  rests  to  decide  whether  he  is  Em- 
peror or  no  Emperor,  par  la  fermete  de  son  attitude  with 
regard  to  the  pleasures  of  the  table,  and  by  the  Spartan 


THE    MAN   OF    IRON  641 

simplicity  of  his  habits  and  tastes.  How  I  should  like  to 
offer  him  black  broth  and  barley  bread  in  a  special  wooden 
bowl  and  platter.  But  that,  I  suppose,  would  be  Use 
majeste." 

And  closely  emulated  by  Von  Holnstein  and  Von 
Pranky,  he  gave  free  reign  to  his  Gargantuan  appetite, 
taking  twice  of  nearly  every  course,  and  washing  the  huge 
meal  down,  as  was  his  habit,  with  floods  from  Rheims  and 
ifipernay. 

"When  the  cloth  was  drawn  and  fresh  relays  of  wine  ap- 
peared, the  Prince  accepted  but  a  single  glass  of  fine  cham- 
pagne with  his  coffee.  When  the  costly  cigars  were  of- 
fered, he  pulled  from  his  pocket  a  porcelain  pipe  bearing 
his  crest  and  monogram,  painted  and  sent  him  by  his  Eng- 
lish wife  as  a  Christmas  present,  and  said : 

' '  I  should  prefer  to  smoke  this,  if  Your  Excellency  does 
not  mind." 

Dinner  over,  His  Royal  Highness,  with  the  Bavarians 
and  the  Minister,  repaired  to  the  salon.  Overhead,  Made- 
moiselle de  Bayard,  lonely  in  her  prison  bedroom  on  the 
second  floor,  heard  their  voices — deep,  sonorous  bass,  shrill 
tenor,  and  penetrating,  resonant  baritone — engaged  in  dis- 
cussion or  joining  in  argument.  At  ten  o'clock  the  Prince 
took  leave,  attended  to  his  vehicle  as  previously  by  the 
Chancellor,  to  whom  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  as  he  pressed 
his  hand : 

' '  We  are  now  no  longer  North  Germans,  but  Germans.  I 
shall  urge  upon  my  father  the  speedy  proclamation  of  the 
Empire  with  all  external  state.  Names,  arms,  titles,  colors 
place  us  before  the  world  in  a  proper  light.  I  have  never 
coveted  a  Crown  Imperial.  I  denounce  the  idea  of  a  bom- 
bardment as  brutal  and  unnecessary.  But  I  am  willing 
to  reap  all  the  honors  and  advantages  that  can  be  gained 
from  our  victory.  Impress  this  upon  my  father,  who 
treats  pomp  and  solemnity  with  indifference.  As  to  de- 
manding the  old  crown  of  Charlemagne  from  Vienna,  I  do 
not  at  all  see  the  necessity  for  that.  I  shall  write  to  my 
wife  to-night ! ' ' 

And  Unser  Fritz  got  into  the  exquisite  sledge  that  had 
been  given  to  the  beautiful  Empress  by  the  Third  Na- 
poleon, and  was  whirled  away  in  a  glittering  dust  of  snow, 
kicked  up  by  the  fiery  Orloffs'  heels.  And  the  Chancellor, 
recovering  from  his  deep,  ceremonious  bow,  wheeled  and 


642  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

went  back  up  the  steps,  with  his  bald  head  glittering  in 
the  ruddy  torchlight.  .  .  .  None  might  guess  what  savage 
triumph  swelled  the  heart  beating  under  his  white  full- 
dress  uniform,  upon  this  the  night  that  set  upon  the 
fabric  of  the  man's  colossal  labors  the  copingstone  of 
Success. 

The  Bavarian  plenipotentiaries  took  leave  within  ten 
minutes.  Count  Hatzfeldt  had  been  summoned  to  the 
salon  a  few  moments  previously.  When  the  unseen  bustle 
of  their  departure  had  subsided,  the  Secretaries  and  Coun- 
cilors, smoking  and  drinking  tea  in  the  dining-room,  were 
unexpectedly  joined  by  the  Minister. 

All  rose  up  as  he  suddenly  opened  the  folding  doors, 
thrust  in  his  head  and  shoulders,  and  surveyed  them, 
smiling.  Behind  him  was  Hatzfeldt,  pale  and  excited,  and 
with  eyes  that  seemed  dancing  out  of  his  head.  There  was 
a  silence  of  expectation,  then  the  great  figure  moved  to 
the  table,  and  men  scattered  to  make  space  for  him  as 
though  his  contact  might  have  slain. 

He  wore  full-dress  White  Cuirassier  uniform,  without 
the  steel  cuirass,  and  the  First  and  Second  Classes  of  the 
Iron  Cross,  and  the  Bed  Eagle,  with  the  peculiar  depora- 
tion  that  he  always  sported,  and  which  had  been  given  him 
in  his  young  manhood  for  saving  life.  His  bald  forehead 
and  great  domed  cranium  were  studded  with  shining  drops 
of  perspiration,  under  his  tufted  brows  his  blue  eyes  blazed 
with  a  triumph  almost  fearful ;  his  straight-bridged,  snub- 
ended  nose,  thick  cheeks,  and  bulldog  jowl  were  crimson 
and  dripping.  He  drew  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped 
them — and  the  hand  that  held  the  linen  palpably  shook. 

He  said  to  them  all,  and  they  held  their  breath  to  listen : 

"Gentlemen,  the  Bavarian  business  is  settled,  and  every- 
thing signed  and  sealed.  We  have  got  our  German  Unity 
— and  our  German  Empire ! ' ' 

There  was  a  deep  silence  for  a  moment,  broken  by 
Busch's  request  to  be  allowed  to  take  the  pens  with  which 
the  treaty  had  been  signed.  He  got  permission. 

"That  little  Busch,"  said  the  Minister,  "will  never  lose 
anything  for  want  of  a  tongue.  If  he  thinks  to  find  there 
the  gold  pen  set  with  brilliants,  that  was  sent  me  by  the 
Hamburg  jeweler,  he  is  mistaken.  Come!"  he  added, 
' '  this  is  a  great  occasion ! ' '  and  bade  Hatzfeldt  ring  for  a 
servant  and  order  up  more  champagne. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  643 

The  wine  was  brought  and  opened.  He  said  to  the  serv- 
ant who  officiated: 

"Let  the  house  steward  know  that  some  wine  is  to  be 
sent  to  the  clerks  and  decipherers  in  their  room.  The 
servants  also  are  to  have  what  they  like  best  for  drink- 
ing— I  fancy  Niederstedt  will  choose  Old  Nordhausen. 
But — short  of  my  best  liquor,  let  what  each  likes  best  be 
given  to  him.  No! — not  that  glass.  I  will  drink  out  of 
my  biggest  goblet !  ..." 

With  the  fizzing  bumper  in  hand,  he  waited  until  all  had 
been  served,  looking,  as  he  reared  his  great  bulk  at  the 
head  of  the  full  table,  the  biggest  man,  mentally  and  physi- 
cally, who  had  ever  served  the  Hohenzollern.  In  his  most 
powerful  tones,  he  called  the  toast : 

"Hock!  to  His  Imperial  Majesty,  our  Kaiser  Wilhelm!" 

Every  man  there  strained  his  lungs  to  the  utmost,  but 
the  great  bull  voice  of  the  Chancellor  drowned  every  other 
there. 

He  talked  a  little  more:  ""We  should  never  have  hooked 
the  King  of  Bavaria,  but  for  the  pluck  of  Holnstein,  who 
set  off  from  Munich  to  tackle  His  Most  Gracious  at  his 
Palace  of  Neuschwanstein,  and — there  being  no  railway — 
made  in  six  days  a  journey  of  eighteen  German  miles  on 
foot  and  on  horseback  over  mountain  passes,  agreeably 
diversified  by  forest  tracks  and  timber  roads." 

He  drank  and  went  on : 

"He  arrived,  to  find  His  Majesty  nursing  his  toothache 
in  absolute  solitude,  invisible  to  human  eyes,  save  those 
belonging  to  the  dentist,  his  valets  and  fiddlers  and  grooms. 
At  first  the  King  refused  to  receive  him,  but  Holnstein  was 
clever  enough  to  gain  over  the  dentist  to  deliver  a  letter 
from  his  own  hand,  and  incidentally  one  written  by  my- 
self. .  .  ." 

He  went  on,  with  a  smile  that  curved  the  great  mustache 
into  lines  of  gayety : 

"Knowing  myself  particularly  detested  by  King  Ludwig, 
I  had  taken  pains  to  make  my  letter  acceptable.  I  said  in 
it  that  my  family  had  enjoyed  the  patronage  of  his  family 
a  trifle  of  five  hundred  years  ago.  I  mentioned  that  rein- 
stitution  in  the  Wittelsbach  good  graces  had  been  the  ob- 
ject of  my  whole  life's  labors.  I  incidentally  pressed  the 
claims  of  the  King  of  Prussia  to  be  made  Emperor  of 
Germany.  I  enclosed,  with  many  apologies,  the  draft  of  a 


644  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

letter  which  expressed  the  concurrence  of  Bavaria.  'Your 
Majesty  has  only  to  copy  this  and  sign  it,'  I  added,  'and 
the  troublesome  business  is  closed.'  What  a  prospect  to  a 
monarch  afflicted  by  an  obstinately  throbbing  gumboil! 
There  was  no  paper  or  pen  at  hand  with  which  to  answer, 
so  the  dentist  presented  his  patient  with  a  sheet  out  of  his 
pocketbook,  and  the  patent  ink  reservoir  pen  with  which 
he  writes  his  prescriptions.  King  Ludwig  sits  up  in  bed, 
scrawls  a  copy  of  my  draft  reply,  and  the  German  Empire 
is  made.  .  .  .  The  Festival  of  the  Orders  and  the  Proc- 
lamation of  the  Emperor  will  come  off  in  the  Great  Hall 
of  Versailles  upon  a  certain  date  not  far  off.  ...  I  will 
leave  you  to  guess  what  the  date  is  likely  to  be !  .  .  . " 

In  the  midst  of  a  deafening  tumult  of  joyful  outcries  and 
congratulations,  he  turned  his  great  eyes  upon  one  excited 
face  after  another,  and  drained  his  capacious  glass  and  set 
it  down. 

"And  with  all  this,  gentlemen,  our  hopes  might  have 
foundered.  .  .  .  The  Royal  sign  manual  might  have  availed 
us  nothing !  .  .  .  the  Treaty  might  never  have  been  signed ! 
.  .  .  Everything  has  depended  upon  a  question  as  trivial 
and  ridiculous  as  indeed  are  most  of  our  human  vanities. 
Imagine  the  gravity  of  the  question  at  issue !  .  .  .  Whether 
the  Bavarian  officers  are  in  future  to  wear  the  marks  of 
their  military  rank  upon  their  collars  as  heretofore,  cr  on 
their  shoulders,  like  us  North  Germans?  .  .  .  Upon  that 
the  German  Empire  has  dangled,  do  you  hear  ?  Ah !  how 
many  times,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  tempted  to  break  out 
and  tell  those  fellows  in  the  devil's  name  to  sew  their  stars 
and  badges  on  the  seats  of  their  breeches.  But  I  com- 
forted myself  with  the  old  adage :  Politeness  as  far  as  the 
last  step  of  the  gallows,  but  hanging  for  all  that!" 

They  roared  with  laughter.    He  called : 

"Fresh  bottles!  A  little  excess  may  be  pardoned,  upon 
this  of  all  the  nights  in  the  year.  Really,  I  need  a  buck-up 
after  all  that  I  have  suffered,  what  with  this  Bavarian 
business,  with  Gortchakoff's  Note,  and  the  bumptiousness 
of  the  English,  who,  without  knowing  why  or  wherefore, 
are  bellowing  for  war.  All  that  danger  has  been  avoided 
by  the  exercise  of  a  little  diplomacy.  .  .  .  But  how  can 
we  expect  to  be  taken  seriously  by  the  Powers  when  we 
procrastinate  in  the  matter  of  the  Paris  Bombardment — 
which  ought  to  begin  at  once!" 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  645 

There  "was  a  hubbub  of  acquiescence,  from  which  only 
the  voices  of  Hatzfeldt  and  Abeken  were  missing. 

Bismarck-Bohlen  begged  leave  to  propose  a  toast.  The 
Minister  asked,  tolerantly  regarding  his  young  relative, 
who  vibrated  with  suppressed  hiccups,  and  was  palpably 
unsteady  upon  his  long  legs : 

' '  What  is  this  toast  we  are  to  drink  ? ' ' 

Bismarck-Bohlen,  in  labor  with  speech,  got  out  with  a 
final  effort: 

' '  The — hie  I — bombar — hie  I — ment !  Big — hie  I — potar- 
roes  for  Paris ! ' ' 

"Ah,  as  God  lives!"  he  said  to  them,  "I  must  drink 
that  toast!" 

It  went  round.    Hatzfeldt  followed  with : 

"Our  glorious  Chancellor!" 

' '  Our  glorious  Chancellor !  Our  great,  ineffable,  power- 
ful Kaiser-maker!  Hoch!  the  Fiirst  von  Bismarck-Sehon- 
hausen,  Imperial  Germany's  master-mind!" 

Sobs  mingled  with  their  acclamations.  Their  faces  were 
now  purple  red  with  the  exception  of  Hatzfeldt 's,  which 
was  ghastly,  and  Bismarck-Bohlen 's,  which  presented  a 
combination  of  shades,  in  which  pea  green  and  orange  pre- 
dominated, as,  bathed  in  tears,  he  staggered  to  embrace 
his  august  relative.  He  was  turned  off  with  a  single  jerk 
of  the  Minister's  wrist,  to  fall  weeping  on  the  bosom  of 
Privy  Councilor  Abeken,  who,  shocked  at  finding  himself 
involved  in  something  approaching  to  an  orgie,  was  in  the 
act  of  escaping  from  the  room. 

"My  thanks  for  the  toast!"  said  the  resonant  voice  in 
their  dulled  and  singing  ears,  ' '  but  pray  all  remember  that 
I  am  no  longer  the  North  German  Chancellor,  or  even  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Germanic  Federation,  but  Chancellor  of 
the  German  Empire,  which  has  a  better  sound !  And  this 
is  now,  or  will  be  by  the  New  Year — the  Imperial  German 
Chancellery,  and  Foreign  Office,  while  you,  my  friends,  are 
Imperial  Privy  Councilors,  Secretaries,  and  so  on.  We  will 
baptize  your  green  honors  in  a  fresh  round  of  champagne, 
and  then  I  must  leave  you.  I  have  yet  before  me  some 
hours  of  hard  work,  and  must  keep  my  head  clear  and 
cool." 

He  held  his  great  glass  to  the  now  drunken  servant  to 
be  filled  up. 

"Prosit!"  he  said,  and  lifted  the  capacious  vessel  high, 


646  THE    MAN"    OF    IRON 

and  tossed  off  the  wine  and  dashed  the  costly  goblet  into 
the  fireplace,  where  it  exploded  in  crystal  fragments  and 
sparkling  dust.  Had  they  tried,  his  satellites  could  not 
have  followed  his  example.  Their  leaden  arms  could  only 
lift  the  wine  to  their  dribbly  lips.  They  drank — and  one 
by  one  each  toper  collapsed  and  buckled  as  though  the 
solid  oak  floor  had  given  way  under  his  boneless  feet. 
Hatzfeldt  sank  prone  across  a  chair.  Bismarck-Bohlen 
had  rolled  under  the  table  some  moments  previously,  where, 
judging  by  the  ominous  nature  of  the  sounds  that  asserted 
his  presence,  Madame  Tessier's  Brussels  carpet  was  suffer- 
ing for  his  excess.  Similar  noises,  stertorous  snores  were 
reechoed  from  other  quarters  as  the  Minister  surveyed  his 
fallen  warriors : 

"Men  cannot  drink  in  these  days!"  he  commented,  and 
left  the  room. 


LXXV 

HE  threw  on  his  cap  and  his  great  white  cavalry  cloak 
lined  with  Russian  sables  and  passed  out  by  the  front  door 
into  the  still  white  night.  The  snowstorm  was  over,  the 
fall  had  lessened  to  the  merest  sprinkle.  The  bitter  north- 
erly wind  no  longer  drove  the  blizzards  screaming  before  it, 
each  tree  stood  immovable  under  its  burden,  the  overloaded 
evergreen  bushes  lay  flat  upon  the  ground.  And  the  moon 
sailed  high,  drifting  away  eastward.  Through  the  tatters 
of  the  frost-fog  shone  the  great  blazing  jewels  of  the  stars. 

Twelve  o'clock  struck  near  and  far,  and  from  the  great 
Cathedral  of  the  Place  St.  Louis,  as  from  every  bell-graced 
tower  and  steeple  in  Versailles,  rang  the  Christmas  car- 
illon. Many  voices  broke  upon  the  piercing,  windless  quiet. 
Many  footsteps  were  passing  through  the  snowy  streets. 
Catholics  were  going  to  their  Midnight  Mass  and  Com- 
munion to  be  celebrated  by  permission  of  the  Prussian 
Minister.  He  pictured  the  crowds  that  would  flock  to  the 
great  churches  of  Paris — how  Notre  Dame  would  be  packed 
to  the  doors,  and  Ste.  Marguerite,  also  the  great  Church  of 
the  Carmelites,  and  the  ancient  church  of  the  Augustine 
Fathers  in  the  Place  des  Victoires.  .  .  . 

He  imagined  the  flower-decked  High  Altars  in  the 
churches  and  chapels  of  Versailles  thronged  about  with 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  647 

war-weary,  famine-bitten  refugees  and  residents.  German 
Catholics  would  mingle  with  them — the  conqueror  and  the 
conquered  kneeling  side  by  side.  Wounded  soldiers  of 
both  nations  would  help  each  other  to  limp  to  the  Com- 
munion rail;  the  atmosphere  of  the  hushed,  crowded  sanc- 
tuaries would  throb  and  vibrate  with  prayer.  .  .  . 

For  what  boon  would  all  these  suppliants  entreat  High 
Heaven  most  fervently?  Pacing  in  and  out  of  the  snowy 
garden  alleys,  his  giant  shadow  passing  over  the  moveless 
tree  shadows,  he  asked  himself  the  question.  There  was 
but  one  reply: 

For  Peace.  .  .  .  They  would  pray  to  GOD  for  Peace  .  .  . 
that  Bismarck  was  not  going  to  give  them  yet  a  while. 
Under  the  icicles  that  had  formed  on  his  great  mus- 
tache he  laughed.  And  a  Satanic  pride  swelled  within  him 
as  he  told  himself  that  this  was  his  crowning  hour  of  life. 

The  wild  sweet  frenzy  of  the  bells  was  dying  down. 
Distant  refrains  of  sturdy  German  carols  came  from  the 
military  quarters  and  the  barracks.  The  bells  stopped, 
wavered,  broke  out  again,  grew  faint,  and  were  still.  And 
it  seemed  to  the  man  standing  in  the  chill  silence  of  the 
snowy  garden  as  though  he  heard  the  Spirit  of  France  and 
the  Spirit  of  Germany  communing  in  the  depths  of  this 
Christmas  Night. 

It  was  the  voice  of  France  that  wept : 

"Alas!  miserable  that  I  am,  what  hast  thou  done  to  me? 
Why  have  thy  fierce  hordes  rolled  down  upon  me  from  the 
strange  Pagan  lands  in  the  inclement  East?  Was  it  my 
fame,  or  my  wealth,  or  my  beauty  that  tempted  thy  Hun- 
nish  warriors,  the  yellow-haired  footmen,  with  hard,  'blue- 
eyed  faces  and  huge  hairy  limbs,  and  the  uncouth,  fierce 
tanned  horsemen,  who  ride  as  though  they  were  one  with 
their  "beasts?  Woe  is  me!  for  my  white  "breasts  that  were 
kissed  by  the  conquering  Roman!  must  I  yield  them  again 
to  be  bruised  by  the  ravishing  Frank f  A  curse  on  iheel 
thou  treacherous,  deep-flowing,  swift  river,  that  hast  again 
proved  no  barrier  to  the  Prussian  invader!  I  am  fallen  a 
prey  to  the  Confederation  set  up  by  the  Corsican  upon  the 
Rhine.  Oh!  hard  as  the  nether  millstone!  Wilt  thou  un- 
pitying,  behold  Famine  devour  my  beauty?  See,  the  white 
limbs  that  show  through  my  tattered  garment  are  fieshless! 
No  man  who  looks  upon  me  would  desire  me  more!  For 
what  hast  thou  dug  a  pit  about  me  and  set  up  thy  terrible 


648  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

war  engines?  Was  I  not  willing  to  make  terms  with  thee, 
as  the  conqueror f" 

It  was  the  Voice  of  Germany  that  answered : 

"0  Gaulish  Queen!  thou  wert  willing,  but  not  for  the 
conquered  'is  it  to  appoint  the  sum  of  the  ransom,  or  hold 
parley  with  the  victors  regarding  the  price  of  'blood!  Hear- 
est  thou,  0  fallen  one?  I  withdraw  my  triumphant  legions 
ivhen  it  pleases  me.  This  is  a  land  where  the  wine  and  the 
women  are  luscious.  When  we  have  drunken  deep  enough, 
we  shall  load  ourselves  with  spoil  and  treasure  and  go. 
Yet  ere  I  withdraw,  I  shall  have  known  thee  as  a  lover, 
whose  desire  is  kindled  the  fiercer  because  of  thy  hate. 
Death  shall  be  the  priest  who  celebrates  our  espousals. 
He  shall  unite  us  with  a  ring  of  steel  and  fire.  Then  I 
depart,  leaving  thee  to  the  enemies  of  thine  own  house- 
hold, who  shall  wreak  thee  greater  ruin  than  thy  foes.  But 
a  child  shall  be  born  of  thy  long  resistance  and  my  fierce 
triumph  and  our  brief  mingling,  who  shall  be  called  Peace! 
Hearest  thou,  0  France?" 

He  listened,  standing  on  the  hard-frozen,  white-pow- 
dered garden  path  between  the  swept-up  snow  mounds. 
There  was  no  answer.  He  returned,  stamping  the  snow 
from  his  clogged  spurs,  to  the  house. 

The  door  stood  open  as  he  had  left  it.  The  even  tread 
of  the  sentries  came  from  the  Rue  de  Provence.  He  had 
heard  the  guard  being  changed  at  the  entrance  gates  and 
beyond  the  wall  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  Those  with- 
out were  vigilant  if  those  within  were  not.  He  remem- 
bered, noting  the  absence  of  the  usual  Chancery  attendant 
from  the  hall  bench,  that  he  had  given  permission  to  the 
servants,  without  distinction,  to  make  merry  upon  this 
night.  He  could  hear  no  clinking  of  glasses  and  bottles 
belowstairs.  Perhaps  sleep  had  overtaken  them  as  it  had 
the  revelers  in  the  dining-room.  He  softly  opened  the 
double  doors  of  that  apartment.  A  stench  combined 
of  stale  tobacco,  spilled  wine,  and  alcoholic  humanity  of- 
fended his  nose,  and  he  withdrew  it.  But  not  before  he 
had  ascertained  that  with  the  exception  of  Abeken,  who 
had  left  early,  and  Count  Hatzfeldt,  who  must  have  been 
taken  home — the  Staff  slept  there. 

He  looked  into  the  drawing-room.  The  fire  lay  in  gray 
ashes  between  the  fire  dogs.  On  the  table  lay  the  signed 
Treaty  with  Bavaria.  He  picked  it  up  and  rolled  it,  looking 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  649 

at  the  mantelshelf,  where  the  bat-winged  bronze  demon 
brooded  over  the  ormolu  clock. 

The  room,  whose  hearth  was  cold,  whose  windows,  closely 
shuttered,  bolted  and  blinded,  had  the  curtains  drawn  close 
over  them,  was  lighted  by  a  yellow  ray  shining  through  the 
glass  door  opening  into  the  conservatory.  He  crossed  to 
this  door  and  looked  through.  Commendably  sober,  the 
two  officers  of  the  guard  of  Green  Jaegers  who  were  quar- 
tered here  sat  chatting  in  whispers  and  smoking  by  the 
stove.  Between  them  on  an  upturned  tub  bottom  stood  a 
little,  twinkling,  taper-lit  Christmas  tree. 

"VonUslar!    Bleichroder!  ..." 

The  Minister  opened  the  glass  door  and  looked  in.  The 
officers  sprang  to  their  feet  and  stood  saluting  him.  He 
smiled  at  the  little  tree,  and  asked,  nodding  at  the  door  at 
the  end  of  the  conservatory,  leading  to  a  room  where  the 
library  of  the  late  M.  Tessier  had  peaceably  moldered  until 
the  clerks  and  decipherers  of  the  Prussian  Foreign  Office 
had  been  assigned  it  for  their  quarters : 

' '  Have  those  fellows  yet  gone  to  bed  ? ' ' 

And  even  as  he  queried  he  knew  by  the  peculiar  smile 
upon  the  faces  of  Captain  von  Uslar  and  his  subaltern, 
that  the  scene  in  the  dining-room  was  repeated  here.  He 
said  with  a  shrug : 

"Oh,  well!  .  .  .  They  had  my  permission  to  make  a 
night  of  it.  One  would  like  to  be  sure,  though,  that  there 
are  no  candles  to  upset!" 

The  junior  officer  moved  to  the  library  door  and  opened 
it,  setting  free  a  puff  of  hot  air  laden  with  wine  fumes,  and 
a  chorus  of  snores  ranging  from  piping  alto  to  deep  bass. 
Nothing  could  be  seen  except  the  vague  outlines  of  pros- 
trate bodies,  revealed  by  a  pale  gleam  of  moonlight  that 
made  its  way  down  the  chimney  and  shone  upon  the  dead 
ashes  of  the  hearth. 

"Shall  I  wake  anybody?"  queried  the  lieutenant's  look. 
The  Minister  made  a  sign  in  the  negative,  bade  a  pleasant 
good  night  to  the  two  officers,  and  withdrew,  shutting  the 
glass  door.  He  quitted  the  drawing-room,  went  into  the 
hall,  tried  the  fastenings  of  the  hall  door,  and  crossed  to 
the  hatchway  under  the  main  staircase  that  led  to  the 
kitchen  quarters.  A  gas  jet  was  flaring  in  a  draught  at 
the  bottom  of  the  staircase.  He  went  down,  regulated  the 
light  as  he  passed  to  a  safer  volume,  and  tried  the  handle 


650  THE    MAN    OF   IRON 

of  the  door  leading  to  what  had  been  a  housekeeper's  par- 
lor, and  was  now  used  by  the  house  steward  and  the 
Chancery  attendants  as  an  upper  servants'  hall.  A  gasa- 
lier  of  flaring  jets  revealed  five  persons  in  here,  wrapped 
in  the  heavy  sleep  of  drunkenness.  One,  the  house  steward, 
snored,  recumbent  on  a  sofa;  Grams  and  Engelberg,  those 
monuments  of  rigid  respectability,  reposed  with  their  heads 
and  shoulders  resting  on  the  table,  appropriately  deco- 
rated with  empty  bottles  and  upset  glass  beakers,  and  in 
the  center  of  which  stood  a  great  china  bowl. 

The  Minister  peeped  into  this  vessel  curiously.  Apples 
stuck  with  cloves,  and  cinnamon  sticks  left  high  and  dry  at 
the  bowl  bottom  testified  to  the  Yuletide  correctness  of 
the  punch,  brewed  by  the  skilled  hand  of  the  Foreign  Office 
cook.  He,  the  artist  responsible  for  the  dinner  which  had 
astonished  the  three  Bavarian  plenipotentiaries,  leaned 
back,  slumbering  profoundly  in  a  high-backed  armchair.  A 
china  pipe,  gayly  tasseled  and  painted,  drooped  from  one 
side  of  his  relaxed  mouth.  His  feet  rested  upon  the  sprawl- 
ing back  of  the  gigantic  Niederstedt,  who  had  gone  to  sleep 
upon  a  sheepskin  rug  in  front  of  the  wood  stove.  His  huge 
right  hand  still  grasped  an  empty  bottle  that  had  contained 
his  favorite  Old  Nordhausen.  He  opened  one  eye  as  the 
Minister  stooped  to  inspect  him — uttered  a  stertorous 
snort,  and  relapsed  again  into  his  hoggish  Nirvana,  leaving 
the  Minister,  as  he  deliberately  turned  out  the  gas  and 
quitted  the  steward's  room,  to  realize  that,  save  himself, 
the  two  officers  smoking  in  the  winter  garden,  and  the 
women  presumably  sleeping  on  the  second  floor,  the  house 
whose  outer  precincts  were  so  vigilantly  guarded,  did  not 
contain  a  sober  head. 

"Well,  well!  A  bout  of  drunkenness  may  well  be  con- 
doned in  the  servants  when  the  master  himself  gave  the 
signal  for  revelry!" 

He  told  himself  so,  smiling  as  he  made  the  round  of  the 
basement  house  doors.  Nothing  had  disturbed  his  equa- 
nimity saving  the  discovery  that  Niederstedt  was  inca- 
pable of  speech  or  movement.  For  with  his  strange  char- 
acteristic mingling  of  audacity  and  caution,  the  Minister, 
while  leaving  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard  practically  free 
within  the  house  limits,  had  insured  by  private  orders  that 
the  giant  East  Prussian  should  sleep  henceforth  outside 
his  master's  bedroom  door. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  651 

Again,  as  the  master's  long  strides  carried  him  upstairs 
to  the  hall  again,  and  he  took  his  bedroom  candle  from  the 
row  on  the  Empire  console,  he  knew  a  moment  of  inward 
f  rst.  There  was  nobody  to  help  him  undress,  and  put  away 
his  clothes.  Wherever  Fate  and  the  Intendant  General 
had  assigned  the  Minister's  sleeping  quarters,  the  deft 
Grans,  or  the  attentive  Engelberg  had  always  appeared — 
or,  failing  these,  the  stolid  Niederstedt — to  render  these 
and  other  personal  services,  the  lack  of  which  after  long  use 
is  keenly  felt. 

Is;  was  a  hellish  nuisance  to  a  middle-aged  man  to  have 
to  get  himself  out  of  his  full-dress  uniform.  One  grew  hot 
at  the  mere  thought  of  unfastening  the  shoulder  belt  and 
sword  belt,  collar  hooks,  buckles,  swivels,  and  so  on.  Last, 
but  not  least,  the  final  wrestle  with  the  polished,  spurred 
jack  boots.  .  .  . 

''God  be  thanked,  I  am  not  wearing  the  cuirass!"  he 
said  to  himself  devoutly,  as  he  laid  hand  upon  his  bedroom 
door. 

It  swung  back,  and  then  his  vexation  passed  from  him. 
On  a  little  table  near  the  hearthside,  where  yet  some  embers 
of  a  fire  glowed  redly,  stood  a  little  gayly-caparisoned 
Christmas  tree.  Under  its  branches,  adorned  with  red-and- 
white  tapers  as  yet  unlighted,  lay  the  gifts  that  came  from 
home. 

He  crossed  the  room  in  two  long  steps  and  stood  smiling 
before  the  little  fir  tree.  The  purplish  redness  died  out  of 
his  great  cheeks  and  jowl,  the  congested  veins  no  longer 
stood  out  like  ropes  upon  his  throat  and  temples.  The 
great  eyes  that  had  blazed  with  Satanic  pride  softened  into 
tenderness,  as  he  picked  up  the  gifts  one  by  one  and  looked 
at  them. 

"From  His  Daughter  to  Papachen,"  said  an  embroidered 
tobacco  pouch.  "From  Bill"  and  "From  Herbert"  a  gold 
fusee  box  and  a  smoker's  knife  were  respectively  labeled. 
"From  thy  wife  Johanna"  was  written  on  a  slip  of  paper 
attached  to  the  case  that  contained  a  handsome  cup  of  Tula 
ware.  He  turned  the  cup  in  his  hands  many  times  before 
he  returned  it  to  its  outer  husk.  He  said  fondly,  famil- 
iarly, as  though  the  giver  were  standing  beside  him : 

' '  Little  thou  carest,  thou  good  heart ! — whether  thou  art 
wife  to  a  Chancellor  of  the  North  German  Confederation, 
or  the  Chancellor  of  the  German  Empire.  One  object  in 


652  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

life  thou  hast — and  that  is  to  get  the  old  man  home  again ! '' 
After  a  moment  he  added,  pitching  the  Bavarian  Treaty 
on  the  center  table,  unhooking  and  removing  his  sword  belt, 
and  throwing  it  on  the  couch:  "Babel  must  be  bombarded, 
or  thou  wilt  not  be  pleased  with  me  .  .  .  am  I  not  a  good 
pupil,  to  have  learned  my  lesson  so  well  ? ' ' 

The  shoulder  belt  came  off  with  a  slight  degree  of  tvist- 
ing  and  fumbling.  He  laid  it  aside,  and  moved  to  the  slav- 
ing glass,  and  by  its  aid  unfastened  from  his  collar  swivel 
the  Iron  Cross.  "Good!"  he  commented,  and  laid  it  on 
top  of  a  dispatch  box  on  the  center  table.  Then  he  began 
slowly  and  methodically  to  unfasten  the  other  Orders  from 
his  breast.  As  he  pricked  a  finger  with  the  pin  of  one  in 
wrenching  at  it  angrily,  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  would 
have  been  perfectly  feasible  to  have  removed  his  dress  tunic 
with  all  its  decorations,  and  this  discovery  stung  him  to 
wrath. 

"Kreuzdonnerwetter! — am  I,  then,  such  a  sheep 's  head  ? ' ' 
he  said  angrily  to  himself.  Something  dropped  upon  the 
floor  with  a  tinkle  and  rolled  away  merrily  under  a  chair, 
leaving  its  owner  with  the  thick  silver  pin  that  had  secured 
it  gripped  between  his  finger  and  thumb.  It  was  the  medal- 
lion bestowed  upon  him  in  '42  for  an  act  of  gallantry,  the 
obverse  a  shield  of  silver  on  a  circle,  bearing  a  red-enam- 
eled Prussian  eagle,  and  on  the  reverse  the  inscription: 
"Fur  Eettung  aus  Gefahr." 

The  pin  remained  in  his  hand.  Cursing  his  own  clumsi- 
ness, he  took  the  lighted  candle  he  had  placed  upon  the 
center  table  upon  entering,  and  stooped  to  recover  the 
evasive  prize.  Both  hands  were  required  for  the  task,  that 
was  quickly  apparent.  Half  unconsciously  he  reverted  to* 
a  habit  for  which  his  wife  had  often  playfully  scolded  him 
— nipped  the  broken  silver  pin  between  his  teeth  and  bent 
down  to  resume  his  search  upon  the  floor. 

As  he  stooped,  the  detonation  of  a  driving  charge  and 
the  deafening  roar  and  shriek  of  a  huge  shell  were  followed 
by  an  ear-splitting  explosion.  His  practiced  ear  told  him 
that  the  shell  had  been  fired  from  the  Fortress  of  St.  Va- 
lerien.  Half  a  dozen  others  followed  in  rapid  succession. 
No  alarm  trumpet  sounded.  Dogs  barked,  near  and  far, 
the  echoes  of  the  cannonade  rattled  among  the  woods  and 
high  grounds,  then  died  out.  He  said  to  himself: 
"Those  sugar  plums  have  done  damage  somewhere  near 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  653 

St.  Germain.  .  .  .  Now,  then,  where  is  this  runaway 
medal?" 

As  he  queried,  a  sudden  spasm  of  the  windpipe  shot  him 
to  the  perpendicular.  He  coughed  and  hawked  as  he  had 
never  done  before.  With  a  hand  upon  his  side,  he  coughed, 
straining  horribly.  With  streaming,  starting  eyes  he 
coughed,  clutching  at  his  throat. 

And  then,  with  a  sudden  stab  of  pain  beneath  the  uvula 
and  a  strangling  access  of  coughing,  he  realized  that  a 
familiar  home  prediction  had  been  fulfilled : 

"Otto,  you  will  certainly  swallow  that  pin!  .  .  ." 

He  could  almost  hear  the  voice  of  his  wife  speaking. 
How  absurd!  he  thought,  and  laughed;  and  the  agony  in 
his  lacerated  gullet  brought  on  a  fit  of  choking  worse  than 
those  that  had  gone  before.  He  seized  the  candle  and  held 
it  to  his  face  before  the  shaving  mirror,  opening  his  power- 
ful jaws  to  their  widest  and  straining  his  eyes  that  were  too 
blind  with  tears  to  see  his  own  swollen,  discolored  features. 
He  spat  furiously,  ejecting  showers  of  saliva  streaked  with 
blood,  but  not  the  obstacle  that  was  choking  him.  .  .  . 
He  thrust  his  hand  into  his  mouth,  and  groped  as 
far  down  his  throat  as  his  fingers  could  reach — all  to  no 
avail.  .  .  . 

"Help!  .  .  ." 

He  gasped  the  word,  realizing  that  if  no  help  came,  he 
was  a  dead  man.  And  he  seized  the  bell  rope  and  rang 
furiously,  until  the  rope  came  down  in  his  hand  as  had 
that  of  the  reception-room  a  day  or  so  previously,  followed 
by  a  long  trail  of  rusty  wire  that,  when  tugged,  evoked  no 
metal  clang  below. 

' '  Help !  For  the  love  of  God ! "  he  croaked,  and  whirling 
vertigo  seized  him.  Whooping  with  a  dreadful  croupy 
intake,  he  tripped  over  a  footstool,  and  fell  upon  his  hands 
and  knees,  and  struggled  up  again  in  a  last  strangling 
effort,  and  staggered  to  the  door. 

The  door  handle  seemed  to  stick,  or  could  it  be  that  his 
grasp  had  lost  its  power?  In  the  light  of  the  gas  and  his 
yet  flaring  candle,  he  looked  at  his  knuckles  and  saw  that 
they  were  turning  blackish  blue.  ...  A  wave  of  blackness 
rose  and  fell,  swamping  consciousness.  He  emerged  from 
drowning  waters,  and  found  himself  upon  the  landing, 
gripping  some  round  object  that  proved  to  be  the  wrenched- 
off  door  handle,  and  moaning  in  the  whisper  that  he 
thought  a  shout : 


654  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"Help,  help,  help!  ..." 

Bismarck,  the  man  whom  Kings  and  Emperors  meant 
\vhen  they  spoke  of  Prussia — the  great  Minister  who  had 
made  three  Wars — was  dying.  Would  no  one  come?  Not 
one  of  those  who  loved  the  man  would  ever  know  the  true 
story  of  his  sordid,  solitary  ending.  .  .  .  Not  one  of  those 
who  hated  him  but  would  hear  every  ugly  detail  of  it,  and 
recount  it  for  others,  smiling  at  its  grim,  grotesque  absurd- 
ity  

Choked  by  a  pin!  .  .  .  An  end  rather  less  noble  for  a 
great  Chancellor  than  being  run  over  by  a  donkey  cart  or 
smothered  in  a  midden  pit  full  of  liquid  manure.  .  .  . 

Someone  was  groaning  horribly,  close  beside  him.  Deep 
ruckling,  gasping  groans  with  a  rattle  and  a  catch  midway. 
Were  they  his  own  death  groans?  What  was  this?  The 
walls  were  melting  and  vanishing.  Clear,  vivid,  definite, 
there  unrolled  before  his  filming  eyes  a  picture  of  Varzin, 
his  Pomeranian  country  home.  It  was  Spring.  The  dark 
pines  about  the  house  shone  as  though  newly  varnished. 
The  larches  were  caparisoned  with  tassels  of  pale  green. 
The  blue  sky  was  vivid  as  Persian  turquoise.  He  saw  his 
daughter  in  a  white  dress  step  out  from  the  low  wide  porch 
and  stand  smiling  upon  the  terrace.  She  had  a  bunch  of 
primroses  in  her  belt,  and  his  great  hound  Tyras  had  fol- 
lowed her  and  was  rubbing  his  great  head  against  her 
sleeve. 

"Dying!"  he  tried  to  say  to  her.  "Help  your  father!" 
.  .  .  But  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  uttered  nothing  but  a 
groan.  There  was  a  thundering  in  his  ears  like  the  noise  of 
a  field  battery.  His  great  bulk  reeled  toward  her.  .  .  .  He 
pitched  forward  and  fell  heavily.  .  .  . 

He  heard  a  scared  voice  crying:  "  Monseigneur !  ..." 
and  knew  no  more. 


LXXVI 

JULIETTE  had  not  gone  to  bed,  this  snowy  night  of  the  Noel. 
She  had  said  her  Rosary  and  waited  until  the  Christmas 
carillon.  Then  she  knelt  and  prayed  for  her  own  pardon, 
for  light  and  guidance,  for  a  blessing  upon  those  living 
friends  she  held  most  dear,  for  the  souls  of  the  beloved 
departed.  And  then  she  had  waited,  pacing  solitary  in  her 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  655 

bedroom  or  sitting  by  her  fire,  for  the  sound  of  Breagh's 
return. 

Madame  Potier  had  gone  to  the  Midnight  Mass  at  the 
Cathedral.  There  would  be  crowds  of  communicants — she 
might  not  reach  home  before  three.  And  in  her  absence 
had  Juliette  wished  to  sleep,  sleep  would  have  been  ban- 
ished by  the  sounds  of  revelry  going  on  in  the  regions 
belowstairs. 

Those  first  shouts  for  the  Kaiser  had  been  followed  by 
others  for  the  Chancellor.  Even  in  her  remote  eyrie  she 
could  hear  the  clinking  of  glasses  and  the  popping  of  corks. 
Then  after  a  wild  outburst  of  cheering  she  had  seen,  peep- 
ing between  the  frost  flowers  on  her  window  into  the 
snowy,  moonlit  garden,  the  great  figure  in  the  white  Cuiras- 
sier cloak  move  down  the  path  between  the  snow-laden 
trees. 

She  was  possessed  by  a  great  sense  of  loneliness,  and  a 
vague  unreal  sensation  of  living  somebody  else's  life,  and 
not  the  life  proper  of  Juliette  Bayard.  She  locked  her 
door  and  built  up  the  fire  to  a  cheerful  hearth  blaze,  and 
sat  upon  the  rug  in  her  white  dressing  gown,  combing  and 
brushing  her  glorious  hair. 

Never  again  need  those  superb  waves  of  jet-black  spun 
silk  be  confined  in  the  chenille  net  of  Madame  Charles 
Tessier.  One  could  be  charming  if  one  chose — there  was 
no  grim  reason  for  being  ugly,  thought  Mademoiselle,  as 
she  brushed  and  brushed.  .  .  . 

What  was  that? 

So  strange  a  sound  from  below  that  she  dropped  comb 
and  hairbrush  and  sprang  to  her  feet  quivering.  .  .  .  She 
had  heard  such  a  groan  uttered  when  the  lance  of  the 
Uhlan  had  plunged  through  the  body  of  my  Cousin  Bois- 
set.  .  .  . 

Again!  .  .  .  the  sound  of  a  door  thrust  violently  open. 
Heavy  footsteps  thudded  on  the  gaslit  landing  of  the  next 
floor,  and  a  muffled  voice  cried  out  as  though  for  help. 

A  man's  voice.  .  .  .  Again  it  cried.  No  voice  sounded 
in  answer.  She  unlocked  her  door,  and  set  her  foot  upon 
the  stairs. 

A  few  steps  down.  .  .  .  Then  she  saw  him,  the  tottering 
giant  with  the  distorted,  blue  face,  and  the  open  mouth 
that  trickled  with  saliva  and  blood.  What  had  befallen 
Juliette's  enemy  and  France's  pitiless  oppressor?  His 


656  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

huge  staring  eyes  were  fixed  on  her.  Tears  rolled  from 
them  as  the  deep  groans  issued  from  his  gaping  mouth  and 
his  broad  chest  heaved  and  labored  vainly  for  air. 

"Choking!  Help!"  his  gesture  seemed  to  say  to  her, 
and  a  terrible  shudder  convulsed  her  as  the  huge  body 
crashed  down  prone  at  her  feet. 

With  a  strange  mingling  of  pity  and  aversion  she  knelt 
down  beside  him  and  looked  at  him  closely  by  the  light 
of  the  flaring  gas  jet  that  illuminated  the  landing  and 
stairs. 

He  had  turned  a  little  in  falling.  His  blackening  face 
and  staring,  agonized  eyes  spoke  to  his  desperate  condi- 
tion. .  .  .  What  was  to  be  done?  .  .  .  The  obstruction  in 
the  throat  must  be  removed  somehow.  .  .  .  She  rose  up  and 
went  into  the  empty  room  upon  her  left  hand,  and  felt  in 
the  darkness  for  the  bell.  There  was  none.  The  bell  rope 
had  been  pulled  down  by  the  hand  of  the  Minister,  for 
this  was  the  torture  chamber,  where  M.  Thiers  underwent 
his  periodical  ordeal  of  thumbscrew  and  rack. 

Air.  ...  He  must  have  fresh  air.  She  desperately 
flung  both  the  windows  open,  admitting  a  gush  of  piercing 
cold.  He  still  groaned,  but  more  faintly.  The  man  was 
dying.  Was  not  this  the  Judgment  of  Heaven  ? 

In  the  hour  of  his  triumph  the  sword  had  fallen.  France 
would  be  saved — there  would  be  no  bombardment  of 
Paris  if  the  enemy  were  to  die  to-night.  This  she  told 
herself,  standing  in  the  sharp  draught  from  the  open 
windows,  and  knew  a  thrill  of  intolerable  triumph,  think- 
ing: 

"Our  Lord  has  delivered  him  into  hands  as  weak  as 
mine!" 

Ting!  .  .  . 

Her  heart  leaped  and  stood  still.  She  looked  breath- 
lessly from  the  window.  Along  the  middle  of  the  snowy 
Eue  de  Provence,  where  pedestrians  must  walk  to  avoid  the 
dangers  of  the  frozen  sideways,  a  lantern  moved,  carried 
by  a  squat,  muffled  shape.  A  taller  figure  followed,  moving 
steadily. 

Ting-ting-ting!  .  .  . 

A  shock  and  thrill  of  mingled  awe  and  terror  passed 
through  her.  To  some  dying  Catholic,  saint  or  sinner,  in 
the  dawn  of  this  day  of  the  Christ-birth,  the  Body  of  the 
Virgin-born  was  being  conveyed.  .  .  .  Was  it  not  to  aid  a 


THE    MA1ST    OF    IRON  657 

soul  in  dire  temptation — two  souls,  it  might  be — that  He 
had  bidden  His  minister  pass  this  way? 

She  bent  the  knee  and  made  the  Sign  of  the  Cross,  trem- 
bling, then  rose  and  sped  back  to  the  suffocating  man. 
With  a  strength  that  she  could  not  have  believed  herself 
possessed  of,  she  raised  his  discolored  head  upon  her  lap. 
.  .  .  His  great  jaws  were  wide  open.  She  thrust  the  tiny 
hand  within  them.  Shuddering,  sickening,  she  probed  with 
her  slender  fingers,  thrusting  them  down  into  the  contract- 
ing, gulping  throat. 

Something  bright  projected  beneath  the  swollen  uvula, 
wedged  firmly  into  the  membrane,  blocking  the  orifice  of 
the  trachea.  She  nipped  the  projecting  end  in  the  little 
fingers  and  pulled.  It  yielded.  He  gave  a  gulp  of  relief. 
As  the  big  teeth  snapped  together,  she  plucked  the  little 
hand  from  peril,  bringing  with  it  the  broken  silver  pin. 


LXXVII 

HE  was  instantly,  tremendously  sick,  as  an  overeaten  ogre 
might  have  been  in  an  Eastern  story.  When  he  had  fin- 
ished vomiting,  he  heaved  up  his  huge,  shuddering  bulk. 
She  put  her  slight  shoulder  under  the  groping  hand,  and 
guided  him.  With  this  slight  aid  he  reached  his  room.  The 
couch  stood  drawn  forward  at  an  angle  toward  the  fire- 
place. He  staggered  to  it,  let  himself  drop  upon  it,  and 
said,  in  a  groan: 

"Drink!  .  .  ." 

He  pointed  to  the  night  stand  at  his  bedside.  When  she 
poured  from  the  jug  that  stood  there  into  the  glass  and 
brought  it  to  him,  he  gulped  the  contents  greedily. 

"Barley  water  .  .  .  good  for  the  throat!"  he  gasped, 
giving  the  glass  back.  She  filled  it  again,  and  again  he 
emptied  it. 

His  sweat-dabbled  face  was  regaining  a  more  natural 
color.  She  went  to  the  washstand,  filled  a  small  shaving 
basin  with  cold  water  from  the  hand  jug,  and  brought  it 
with  a  fine  clean  towel  to  his  side.  She  dipped  the  towel 
in  the  water  and  laved  his  face  and  forehead.  That  he 
experienced  relief  and  refreshment  from  this  she  saw  by 
the  placid  air  with  which  he  submitted,  leaning  his  head 
back  against  the  pillowed  sofa  end,  and  closing  his  eyes. 


658  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

She  dried  his  face,  and  suddenly  the  great  eyes  opened. 
The  voice  of  the  Chancellor  said : 

"There.  .  .  .  That  will  do!" 

From  the  passive  victim  he  had  suddenly  reverted  to 
the  master;  potent — authoritative.  .  .  . 

"Go  to  bed,  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard,  and  sleep,"  he 
told  her.  ' '  I  am  comfortable  ...  I  shall  do  well  enough ! ' ' 

She  replaced  the  basin  and  towel  in  silence,  bent  her 
head  to  the  figure  sitting  upright  on  the  sofa,  and  moved 
noiselessly  to  the  door.  As  she  touched  the  broken  handle, 
he  said  to  her  abruptly: 

"You  will  be  silent  upon  the  subject  of  to-night's — mis- 
adventure? ..." 

She  answered: 

"I  will  be  silent,  Monseigneur ! " 

He  said,  lifting  a  finger  to  detain  her  yet  another  instant : 

"Do  not  err  in  supposing  me  ungrateful.  I  know  very 
well  that  you  have  saved  my  life!" 

A  shudder  passed  through  her  slight  figure.  She  averted 
her  eyes,  remembering.  .  .  .  He  finished : 

"I  lunch  with  the  King  at  the  Prefecture  to-morrow.  I 
will  see  you  before  I  leave  the  house." 

"As  you  will,  Monseigneur!" 

He  added  with  something  like  a  twinkle : 

"With  regard  to  all  that  .  .  .  debris  upon  the  landing 
...  it  will  not  be  the  first  time  Niederstedt  has  been  guilty 
in  that  way.  Good  night,  Mademoiselle — or,  rather,  good 
morning.  .  .  .  Hark!  Was  not  that  the  bell  of  the  house 
door?" 

"I — am  not  sure,  Monseigneur!"  she  said,  in  hesita- 
tion, for  so  ragged  and  weakly  a  peal  had  been  evolved  by 
the  ringer  that  the  sound  might  have  passed  unnoticed  by 
ears  less  keen  than  his. 

"They  are  all  asleep  or  drunk  belowstairs ! "  He  began 
to  raise  himself  stiffly  from  the  sofa.  "I  will  go  down.  ..." 

"No;  I  will  go!"  she  said. 

And  she  left  the  room.  He  let  himself  sink  back  on  the 
sofa.  "Grosser  Gott!"  he  said  to  himself.  "How  near  a 
thing!  .  .  .  And  that  the  little  Fury  should  have  stopped 
the  brand  from  quenching.  .  .  .  Well,  now,  at  this  rate,  I 
may  live  another  thirty  years.  Not  that  I  should  find 
much  zest  in  a  prolonged  spell  of  power  and  authority. 
The  King-Emperor  in  the  ordinary  course  must  die  before 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  659 

long.  My  master  in  that  event  would  be  a  good-natured 
booby,  who  in  assuming  the  supreme  dignities  of  Imperial 
authority  would  value  the  stage  setting  beyond  anything 
else!" 

He  quoted  with  acerbity  increased  by  recent  suffering : 

"  'Pomp  and  solemnity'  .  .  .  'The  ancient  Crown  of 
Charlemagne  from  Vienna'  ...  'I  shall  write  to  my  wife 
to-night'  .  .  .  Pray  do!  ...  And  while  Your  Royal  High- 
ness is  about  it  you  had  better  consult  little  Prince  Wil- 
liam, who  would  probably  give  you  as  valuable  advice." 

His  thoughts  reverted  to  the  fair-haired,  puny-limbed 
eleven-year-old  urchin  in  kilt  and  plaid  of  Royal  Stuart 
tartans.  .  .  .  "Now,"  said  he,  "what  sort  of  a  future  Em- 
peror may  be  enclosed  in  that  husk  1  .  .  .  That  the  boy  has 
a  crippled  left  arm,  and  a  capital  set  of  sharp  teeth,  which 
he  uses  on  the  calves  of  his  Military  Governor  and  tutors, 
is  practically  all  I  know  of  him.  .  .  .  Come  in ! " 

He  had  been  so  lost  in  thought  as  to  miss  the  sound 
of  chains  undone  and  bolts  drawn  back,  though  he  had 
shivered  unconsciously  as  the  opening  of  the  hall  door  had 
admitted  a  volume  of  fresh,  piercing  air  to  the  heated 
house.  Now  he  reared  himself  upright  upon  the  sofa, 
stared  for  a  moment  at  the  figure  that  responded 
to  his  gruff  "Come  in!"  and  burst  into  an  irresistible 
laugh. 

"Quite  right,  Mr.  Breagh!"  he  said,  in  his  clear  and 
fluent  English.  "I  told  you  to  come  up  to  me  at  whatever 
hour  you  might  get  back.  But  I  forgot  that  you  would 
naturally  visit  Madame  de  Bayard  in  the  costume  proper 
to  Jean  Jacques  Potier,  to  whom  I  suppose  that  extraordi- 
nary overcoat  and  the  wolfskin  cap  must  have  belonged. 
Frankly,  I  did  not  recognize  you.  .  .  .  The  condition  of 
your  clothes,  and  that  bandage  on  your  forehead  are  re- 
sponsible, more  than  my  lapse  of  memory.  You  certainly 
look  rather  shaken.  Let  me  hope  you  have  sustained  no 
serious  hurt?" 

P.  C.  Breagh  grinned  mirthlessly,  and  looked  ruefully 
down  at  his  snowy  boots  and  trousers,  from  which  the 
melting  snow  was  beginning  to  drip  in  little  rills  upon 
the  carpeted  floor.  By  the  light  of  the  two  gas  lamps 
depending  above  the  table,  it  could  be  seen  that  the  gory 
bandage  surmounting  his  pale  face  had  been  applied  by  an 
experienced  hand.  He  needed  no  immediate  surgical  aid. 


660  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

But  his  blue  lips  and  drawn  and  pallid  features  betrayed 
him  exhausted.  The  Minister,  noting  this,  pointed  to  a 
chair. 

' '  Sit  down, ' '  he  said, ' '  and  rest  before  you  speak !  There 
is  brandy  in  that  flask  that  stands  upon  the  bureau.  .  .  . 
But  something  hot  would  be  better  for  you — that  is  what 
you  most  need." 

There  was  a  sound  upon  the  landing  ...  a  faint  tap 
upon  the  door  panel. 

' '  See  who  it  is ! "  said  the  Chancellor. 

As  Breagh  rose,  the  door  opened,  wide  enough  to  admit  a 
little  tray  bearing  two  steaming  coffee  cups. 

"Capital!"  said  His  Excellency,  addressing  the  unseen 
cup-bearer.  ' '  Now,  that  I  call  an  excellent  thought ! ' ' 

He  took  a  cup  from  the  tray  Breagh  offered,  bidding 
him: 

' '  Sit  down  and  drink  the  other.  I  should  have  got  none 
except  for  you!"  When  the  steaming  cup  was  empty, 
"Proceed,"  he  said,  ignoring  the  gray  daylight  outlining 
the  curtain  poles  and  filtering  between  the  drawn  curtains. 

"At  what  hour  did  you  get  to  Maisons  Lafitte?  For  I 
presume  you  did  get  there?" 

P.  C.  Breagh  said: 

"I  got  there  at  about  two  o'clock.  ...  I  had  an  ap- 
pointment at  the  Cathedral,  otherwise  I  should  have  started 
before." 

"I  hope  she  was  pretty!"  said  the  Minister,  smiling. 

P.  C.  Breagh  went  on,  as  though  he  had  not  heard : 

"The  snow  was  beginning  to  freeze.  It  was  not  such 
bad  walking,  but  that  hill  of  St.  Germain  was  a  winder,  and 
in  the  Forest  I  lost  my  way.  ...  If  a  party  of  men — peas- 
ants in  sheepskin  caps  and  jackets — forest  keepers  possibly 
— had  not  turned  out  of  an  avenue  and  kept  marching 
ahead,  I  might  never  have  got  as  far  as  the  Seine 
road.  .  .  ." 

"The  men  were  marching,  and  not  walking,"  commented 
the  Minister,  and  his  great  brows  scowled,  and  his  bulldog 
jowl  hardened  as  he  added:  "And  they  carried  guns,  or 
you  would  not  have  taken  them  for  keepers.  ...  I  have 
no  doubt  that  they  were  Francs-tireurs. " 

' '  I  lost  them  where  the  road  winds  by  the  Seine,  "P.  C. 
Breagh  continued.  ' '  And  then  I  had  a  real  stroke  of  luck. 
I  came  across  a  hack  cab  from  Versailles  at  a  regular 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  661 

standstill.  The  snow  had  balled  in  the  wretched  horse's 
feet,  and  the  driver  was  as  drunk  as  David's  sow.  The 
fare  was  asleep  inside,  but  he  woke  as  I  opened  the  cab 
door  and  flashed  one  of  the  lamps  in  his  face,  and  then  he 
said" — the  narrator  unconsciously  gave  the  tone  and  ac- 
cent of  the  Doctor — "  'By  the  piper  that  played  before 
Moses,  my  boyo!  I  was  dreaming  of  you,  and  here  you 
are."' 

The  Minister  broke  in: 

' '  That  man  was  the  English  correspondent  of  The  Times 
newspaper.  He  is  of  the  same  surname,  though  no  relative 
of  Odo  Russell,  the  English  Envoy,  who  has  been  sent  out 
here  upon  a  Mission  to  our  German  Court.  .  .  .  Ill-natured 
diplomatists  whisper  that  Great  Britain  is  jealous  of  the 
great  successes  of  Prussia,  and  does  not  welcome  the  pros- 
pect of  a  United  Imperial  Germany.  Au  fond,  we  Ger- 
mans have  a  kind  of  sentimental  regard  for  your  nation. 
She  is  an  offshoot  of  the  great  Germanic  stem — it  is  impos- 
sible that  we  should  not  regard  her  as  nearer  to  us  than 
others.  .  .  .  Though,  should  we  ever  seriously  quarrel,  it 
may  be  found  that  the  bitterest  variance  may  exist  be- 
tween those  of  the  same  blood.  .  .  .  And  so  you  have  never 
confided  to  your  friend  the  secret  of  your  presence  in  Ver- 
sailles !  Reticence  in  the  young  is  an  unusual  gift.  Pos- 
sibly he  gave  you  a  lift  in  his  vehicle  ? ' ' 

" Till  the  unlucky  Rosinante  gave  out,"  acquiesced 

Breagh,  "and  we  had  to  leave  her  with  her  Jehu  at  the 
wreck  of  the  railway  station,  and  then  the  Doctor  stopped 
at  the  diggings  of  the  friends  he  was  on  the  way  to  look  up, 
a  half  squadron  of  Barnekow's  Hussars  who  are  quartered 
in  a  deserted  chateau.  They  gave  me  some  sandwiches  and 
beer,  and  then  I  went  on  by  myself  to  the  Villa  Laon  where 
Madame  de  Bayard ' ' — he  stopped  and  added  in  a  low  voice 
—"used  to  live." 

Something  in  the  tone  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
Chancellor.  He  repeated : 

' '  Used  to.  ...  Does  she  not,  then,  live  there  now  ?  Has 
she  gone  with  M.  de  Straz — the  pair  of  love  birds  to- 
gether? ..." 

Said  P.  C.  Breagh,  seized  with  a  shudder  that  knocked 
his  knees  together,  and  speaking  in  a  low  voice : 

"I — I  beg  of  Your  Excellency  to  spare  her  your  irony. 
.  .  .  Madame  de  Bayard  is  dead ! ' ' 


662  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

"So!  .  .  ." 

The  Minister's  ejaculation  was  followed  by  the  order: 

"Now  the  details!  .  .  .  Has  she  died  naturally,  or  by 
accident — or  by  a  murderer's  hand?" 

P.  C.  Breagh  said,  lowering  his  voice  apprehensively : 

"She  was  killed  by  a  shell.  There  was  a  bombardment 
from  Mont  Valerien.  ...  It  broke  out  at  about  a  quar- 
ter past  two  this  morning — just  as  I  reached  the  Villa 
Laon.  .  .  ." 

"Ah!  now  I  understand  how  you  got  that  love  token  on 
your  forehead ! ' '  said  the  Minister. 

Breagh  nodded,  and  wiped  his  wet  forehead  with  a 
blood-stained  handkerchief,  and  shuddered  and  went  on : 

"Nobody  had  gone  to  bed  when  I  got  to  the  villa.  The 
blinds  of  what  I  could  see  was  a  dining-room  were  drawn 
up  and  the  curtains  all  drawn  back.  The  room  was  bril- 
liantly lighted,  lots  of  mirrors  and  crystal  girandoles.  It 
was  like  a  scene  on  the  stage,  looking  at  it  from  the  snowy 
garden.  Shin-deep  in  snow,  because  the  paths  had  not 
been  cleared.  .  .  .  You  could  not  tell  where  the  paths 
were,  in  fact,  so  I  steered  my  course  by  the  big  shining 
window.  Then  I  saw  him,  moving  before  me " 

Queried  His  Excellency : 

"By  him,  you  mean  whom?  .  .  ." 

"A  man,"  said  P.  C.  Breagh,  "whom  I  saw  moving  along 
before  me,  taking  cover  behind  snowy  bushes  and  clumps 
of  frosted  prairie  grass.  When  he  stood  up,  I  saw  that  he 
was  short  in  figure  and  had  immensely  broad  shoulders. 
I  was  quite  sure  that  I  had  seen  the  fellow  before.  In 
fact " 

"In  fact,"  the  Minister  sharply  interrupted,  "you  rec- 
ognized him  as  the  man  who  posed  as  M.  Charles  Tessier, 
and  who  can  have  been  nobody  but  M.  Straz.  Now  tell 
me,  whom  was  he  watching?  Madame  and  a  companion, 
I  venture  to  guess?"  He  added,  as  P.  C.  Breagh  assented : 
"What  was  the  man?  A  civilian  or  an  officer?" 

P.  C.  Breagh  answered,  repressing  another  shudder: 

' '  A  tall,  fair  officer  of  the  Prussian  Guard  Infantry.  He 
and  Madame  were  at  supper,  or  they  ha'd  just  finished.  He 
had  opened  a  fresh  bottle  of  champagne  and  was  leaning 
over  to  fill  Madame 's  glass  when  I  noticed  the  short  man 
standing  still,  watching  them  closely.  He  seemed  to  have 
his  right  hand  in  his  pocket.  He  drew  it  out  and  then — 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  668 

I  don't  know  very  well  what  happened.  There  was  the 
heavy  boom  of  a  big  gun,  and  a  shell  came  shrieking  like 
an  express  train.  ...  I  remember  how  the  spitting  flare  of 
the  fuse  lit  up  the  sky.  And  there  was  a  terrific  crash — 
and  something  hit  me  on  the  head — a  bit  of  masonry,  it 
must  have  been — for  when  I  came  to  myself  other  shells 
were  hurtling,  and  hitting,  and  bursting.  .  .  .  One  smashed 
the  stables  of  the  chateau  where  the  Hussars  are  quartered, 
and  another  has  dug  a  crater,  they  tell  me,  in  the  side  of 
the  Terrace  of  St.  Germain.  The  flashes  made  everything 
show  up  clear  like  lightning,  and  I  picked  myself  up.  .  .  . 
The  blood  was  running  down  into  my  eyes,  blinding  me. 
But  I'm  not  likely  to  forget  what  I  saw.  It  was  ...  so 
awfully  stagey  ...  so  like  a  picture  of  the  sensational, 
blood-curdling,  highly  colored  kind." 

"Goon!" 

' '  It  was  like  this.  The  upper  story  of  the  Villa  had  been 
shaved  off — simply.  There  was  the  interior  of  the  dining- 
room  before  me,  all  color  and  mirrors  and  gilding  and 
twinkling  wax  candles  in  crystal  girandoles.  The  French 
windows  had  been  shattered,  and  there  was  a  great  hole  in 
the  ceiling.  On  the  mantelshelf,  just  in  front  of  me,  be- 
tween two  Sevres  candlesticks,  was  a  clock,  the  hands  point- 
ing to  half-past  two.  There  were  Sevres  figures  on  each 
side  of  the  clock — I  have  seen  them  here  in  the  shop  win- 
dows, 'Pierrot  qui  rit'  and  'Pierrot  qui  pleure.'  The  cry- 
ing Pierrot  had  been  smashed  by  the  shell  splinter  that 
shivered  the  mantel  mirror,  but  the  laughing  Pierrot  was 
untouched.  He  seemed  to  be  holding  his  sides  and  scream- 
ing at  Valverden  sprawling  across  the  table  with  his  skull 
shattered,  and  Madame  de  Bayard  sitting  stone-dead  in  her 
chair.  She  had  the  cigarette  in  her  fingers,  still  alight. 
...  It  must  have  been  painless.  .  .  .  There  was  only  a 
small  blue  hole  in  her  temple — just  here." 

The  Minister  was  repeating : 

"Valverden!  .  .  .  Are  you  clear  that  you  mean  Count 
Max  Valverden  ?  .  .  .  But  of  course  you  are !  There  is  no 
other  officer  of  that  name  in  the  Prussian  Guard  Infantry. 
How  you  came  to  be  acquainted  you  shall  tell  me  to-mor- 
row." He  laughed  harshly,  looking  at  the  clock  upon  the 
mantel.  "I  should  say  to-day,  at  a  somewhat  later  hour." 
He  added,  as  Breagh  rose:  "Have  you  told  anything  of 
this  matter  to  Mademoiselle  de  Bayard?  Then,  I  advise 


664  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

you,  do  not  enlighten  her  at  all.  Or,  if  you  must  do  so,  tell 
her  after  you  are  married ! ' ' 

He  drove  the  sentence  home  with  another  that  left  the 
listener  gasping: 

"For  of  course  you  will  marry,  you  are  capitally  suited 
to  one  another.  The  mother  exists  no  longer  and  M.  Straz 
if  he  escaped,  which  is  most  likely,  will  not  be  able  to  in- 
terfere. Let  me  recommend  you  to  get  some  rest.  You 
will  require  it.  For  at  twelve  you  leave  Versailles  with 
Mademoiselle  de  Bayard  en  route  for  England.  Now 
go!  .  .  ." 


LXXVIII 

P.  C.  BREACH  and  Juliette  met  upon  the  morrow  in  the 
same  spot  near  the  rose  tree  that  had  borne  pink  blossoms 
undismayed  through  the  bitter  wintry  months. 

"You  have  bestowed  upon  me  no  Christmas  present, 
Monsieur, ' '  Juliette  said  to  him  gravely.  ' '  Now  I  will  have 
you  gather  one  of  those  roses  and  give  it  to  me.  ..." 

He  strode  into  the  drift,  mid-leg  deep,  and  cut  a  bud  that 
was  upon  the  sheltered  side  next  the  wall. 

"Be  careful  of  the  thorns,  lest  they  prick  you!"  Juliette 
cried  to  him.  "Do  not  cut  your  fingers!  Do  not  get 
wet!" 

"You  shall  not  have  this  rose,"  he  said,  withholding  the 
frozen  flower,  "until  you  have  given  my  Christmas  gift 
to  me!" 

Her  blue  eyes  rose,  brimming,  to  meet  his. 

"Ah!  what  is  there  I  can  give  you?  Tell  me,  my 
friend!"  she  said  softly. 

He  got  out,  blushing,  and  swallowing  a  lump  that  rose  in 
his  throat: 

"We  have  been  through  so  much  ...  we  have  seen 
strange  and  terrible  things  together !  .  .  .  "We  have  shared 
dangers  ...  we  have  seen  a  great  nation  in  the  death 
throes.  .  .  .  Nothing  could  ever  make*  us  strangers  what- 
ever came  to  pass.  .  .  .  But  now  we  are  going  back  to 
England.  Before  we  leave  this  garden  where  we  have  been 
so  happy " 

"It  is  true.  .  .  .  We  have  been  happy  here!"  she  an- 
swered. 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  665 

Winged  smiles  were  hovering  about  her  mouth.  Jeweled 
gleams  played  between  the  -black  fringes  of  her  eyelashes, 
as  though  fairy  kingfishers  were  diving  for  some  new  joy  in 
those  sapphire  depths.  She  asked  demurely,  as  the  clumsy 
male  creature  choked  and  boggled: 

''What  do  you  seek,  Monsieur?  Some  souvenir.  .  .  . 
Some  token  of  friendship?" 

He  said,  in  a  low,  dogged  voice: 

' '  I  have  never  asked  mere  friendship  from  you.  But  if 

you — if  you "  He  got  it  out  with  a  desperate  effort: 

"Before  we  leave  this  ...  if  you  would  kiss  me — 
once  .  .  ." 

She  drew  back.  A  terrible  dignity  vested  her  sloping 
shoulders.  Modesty  veiled  her  eyes.  He  was  going  miser- 
ably away,  when  she  beckoned  to  him,  with  that  splendid 
sweep  of  the  arm  that  might  have  belonged  to  Krimhilde- 
Briinhilde-Isolde-Britomart  and  the  whole  covey  of  Ro- 
mance Ideals.  .  .  .  He  returned.  .  .  .  She  spoke,  and  her 
eyes  were  wavering  under  the  eager  fire  of  his : 

' '  See  you  well,  Monsieur,  a  young  lady  cannot  bestow  a 
gift  of  that  kind.  It  is  for  the  gentleman,  having  obtained 
consent,  to  take  ..." 

Breagh  caught  her  to  his  broad  breast  and  snatched  the 
coveted  guerdon.  He  cried  to  her  in  wonder  and  triumph : 

"You  love  me!  ...  A  fellow  like  me?  .  .  .  And  you 
will  be  my  wife?  We  are  not  going  to  England  to  be 
parted !  I  am  not  a  beggar  any  more !  I  will  try  again  for 
my  practicing  degree  in  Medicine,  and  get  it !  I  will  write 
books  and  make  a  name  for  myself  in  Literature.  But  not 
unless  you  '11  marry  me !  .  .  .  Oh,  Juliette !  say  when  you 
will  marry  me  ? " 

She  said,  with  downcast  eyelids  that  veiled  laughter, 
though  the  rose  flush  had  dyed  her  very  temples,  and  the 
beating  of  her  heart  shook  her  slight  frame: 

"Monsieur,  my  grandmother  would  have  answered: 
'Under  the  circumstances,  the  marriage  cannot  take  place 
too  soon.  .  .  .  Once  a  young  girl  has  been  kissed,  she  must 
fie  married/  And" — the  smile  peeped  out — "I  was  taught 
always  to  obey  my  grandmother.  ..." 

"Admirably  spoken!"  said  the  Chancellor. 

He  had  come  upon  the  lovers,  of  set  purpose  it  may  have 
been.  Now  he  stood  surveying  them  in  an  ogreish,  yet  not 
unamiable  fashion,  as  they  stood  before  him  hand  in  hand. 


666  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

He  said,  and  the  resonant  tones  were  veiled  by  a  painful 
hoarseness,  of  which  the  reason  was  known  to  Mademoiselle 
alone : 

' '  Mr.  Breagh,  Count  Hatzfeldt  has  the  necessary  papers 
of  which  I  spoke  to  you.  You  will  find  him  in  the  drawing- 
room  waiting  to  complete  some  slight  formalities  in- 
separable from  the  granting  of  passports  in  time  of 
War.  .  .  .  Good-bye  to  you,  good  luck  and  all  happiness. 
I  am  on  the  point  of  departure  for  the  Prefecture,  so  I 
shall  not  again  see  you.  For  a  moment  I  detain  Mademoi- 
selle." 

As  Breagh  bowed  to  Juliette  and  His  Excellency  and 
hastened  toward  the  house,  the  Chancellor  said  to  Juliette : 

"It  is  too  cold  to  stand  here  ...  it  will  be  wiser  to 
walk  a  little.  There  is  a  path  that  leads  us  out  near  the 
wall  at  the  bottom  of  the  shrubbery. ' ' 

It  was  where  the  mask  of  the  Satyr,  now  with  long  icicles 
hanging  from  his  eyebrows  and  goat-beard,  jutted  from  the 
ivy  of  the  boundary  wall. 

The  little  spring  had  not  frozen,  the  ferns  and  grasses 
round  its  margin  were  still  quite  green.  A  few  pinched 
violets  peeped  from  among  their  broad  leaves.  Juliette 
stooped  and  gathered  one  or  two  of  the  faintly-fragrant 
blossoms  and  a  leaf  of  fern  and  a  sprig  of  ivy.  As  she 
slipped  them  into  the  inner  pocket  of  her  jacket,  the  Chan- 
cellor spoke: 

"Mademoiselle,  I  have  to  thank  you  for  my  life 

Now,  last  night "  He  squarely  confronted  her,  his 

powerful  eyes  looking  down  upon  the  little  figure  so  frail 
and  slender.  "Now,  last  night,"  he  repeated,  "had  you 
really  believed  that  my  death  meant  the  salvation  of  your 
country.  .  .  .  Well !  .  .  .  Did  you  not  hold  me  in  the  hol- 
low of  your  hand  ? ' ' 

She  met  his  stern  regard  with  a  look  that  was  clear  as 
crystal.  She  said  in  her  silver  tones: 

"It  is  true,  Monseigneur.  Our  Lord  granted  me  my 
wish.  You  so  great,  so  strong,  so  powerful,  were  helpless 
as  an  infant.  ...  I  had  only  not  to  put  out  my  finger — 
and  you  were  a  dead  man!  The  power  of  Life  and  Death 
was  mine,  yet  I  could  not  let  you  perish,  for  Almighty 
God  would  not  permit  it.  ...  He  willed  that  you  should 
not  die.  .  .  .  Crush  France  or  spare  her,  you  will  not  be 
carrying  out  the  wishes  of  Count  Bismarck.  You  will  do 


THE    MAN    OF    IRON  667 

what  God  permits  you  to  do — no  more  and  no  less!  But 
when  you  are  most  strong  and  most  powerful  .  .  .  when 
you  play  with  Kings  and  Emperors  like  pawns,  then  I 
ask  you  to  remember  Juliette  de  Bayard!" 

She  quivered  in  every  limb,  but  she  went  on  reso- 
lutely : 

"You  are  not  a  good  man,  Monseigneur!  .  .  .  Hard, 
subtle,  arrogant,  cruel  and  unscrupulous,  God  made  you  to 
be  the  Pate  of  France.  One  day  she  will  lift  up  her  face 
from  the  mire  into  which  you  have  trodden  it,  and  the  star 
will  be  burning  unquenched  upon  her  forehead.  Y7e  may 
both  be  dead  before  that  day  dawns.  But  rest  assured 
that  when  next  your  armies  cross  the  Rhine  they  will  not 
gain  an  easy  victory !  .  .  .  We  shall  be  prepared  and  ready, 
Monseigneur,  when  the  Germans  come  again!" 

He  looked  at  her  and  listened  to  her  in  silence,  perhaps 
in  wonder.  She  seemed  the  Spirit  of  France  incarnate,  a 
pale  reed  shaken  by  prophetic  winds  from  Heaven. 

"It  may  be  so,"  he  said  to  her  gravely.  "And  now, 
Mademoiselle  de  Bayard,  I  shall  ask  you  to  give  me  your 
hand  at  parting!" 

' '  Take  it,  Monseigneur, ' '  she  bade  him. 

He  held  it  in  his  an  instant,  saying  in  his  clear-cut 
French : 

"I  desire  no  evil  to  France  when  I  say  that  I  wish  that 
every  Frenchman  had  a  daughter  like  you!  ..."  He 
added:  "Thanks  for  the  beignets.  ...  I  shall  always  re- 
member you  when  I  am  served  with  them.  .  .  .  And  for 
last  night  again  thank  you!  .  .  .  Farewell  and  all  happi- 
ness attend  you,  Mademoiselle ! ' ' 

His  heavy  footsteps  crunched  the  snow.  He  was  gone, 
and  she  had  almost  called  after  him : 

"Monseigneur,  I  do  not  hate  you  so  much  as  I  have 
said.  ..." 

On  the  morning  of  the  27th  of  January  eighteen  French 
guns  on  Fort  Montrouge  had  been  keeping  up  a  brisk 
cannonade  of  the  German  investing-works.  Meeting  no 
response  their  thunder  ceased.  There,  upon  the  east  and 
north  of  beleaguered  Paris — with  a  simultaneous  uprush 
of  fierce  white  flame  from  the  muzzles  of  seventy  giant 
howitzers,  with  the  detonation  of  driving-charges,  and  the 
piercing  scream  and  deafening  crash  of  the  percussion  of 


668  THE    MAN    OF    IRON 

Krupp's  huge  siege-projectiles,  the  bombardment  of  the 
doomed  Queen  City  of  Cities  had  begun.  .  .  . 

A  few  moments  before,  as  Juliette  de  Bayard  and  her 
lover  set  foot  upon  the  steamer-pier  at  Dover,  an  aged 
French  lady,  who  had  stopped  Count  Bismarck  on  the  steps 
of  the  Prefecture,  had  imploringly  said  to  him : 

"0!  Monseigneur,  donnez  nous  la  paix!" 

And  the  Iron  Chancellor  had  replied  to  her  almost 
smilingly : 

"Dear  lady,  it  is  with  a  peace  as  with  a  marriage,  there 
must  be  two  parties  willing  to  conclude  the  contract.  .  .  . 
I  am  ready  to  make  peace,  but  the  other  side  is  not!" 


THE   END 


A     000128208     6 


